


A Great Tactician

by TaraethysHolmes



Series: A Pair of Eagles [2]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Dystopian War, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, M/M, Paternal Greg Lestrade, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2020-10-12 07:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 138,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20560796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraethysHolmes/pseuds/TaraethysHolmes
Summary: "We are going to build a good future, you and I. Together."The Hunger Games are over. The War has begun. Mycroft Holmes has risen from the dead on top of the Clock Tower of the 74th Hunger Games. A war of ideologies, a war for the future Greg wants; all of it building like a pressure valve, ready to burst.Divides between the Districts, divides within the Resistance, divides between friends and family, and a divide of ideologies threatens to tear them apart before the world Greg wants can even be conceived.





	1. Pain

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to A Silver Knight is finally here! I'm so excited to have finally finished it, and I really hope you all enjoy the sequel. 
> 
> I am going to warn you; there is going to violence and gore, and there are going to be a couple of complicated ideas about freedom and democracy that I hope I explain well enough through Greg's eyes. 
> 
> This won't make sense unless you've read A Silver Knight, so please read that before you try reading A Great Tactician. 
> 
> For those of you who know where we've come from, I hope you enjoy how this all ends. 
> 
> TH

Pain. 

That was the first thing Mycroft felt, as he became aware of the darkness surrounding him. 

The last thing he could remember was Gregory’s horrified, beautiful face looking down at him, the soft touch of his hands and the silver of his hair shining in the dawning sun over the edge of the tower. 

Mycroft wanted to stay there, in that moment. 

The beauty of his lover washing through his veins; it was enough to wash out the pain. 

At least for a while. 

As his eyes closed, he lost the final vision of Gregory, and was left only with the lancing pain through his middle. The knife was like a boiling hot brand, sunken straight through into his sternum. It burnt through him, straight through to his soul, setting him aflame. The weight of the blood in his veins was burning, and all he could hear was the rushing of his heartbeat in his ears. 

He had to hold his breath. 

He had to hold it until it burnt in his lungs as if it were hydrogen gas set aflame, the bright gas burning and blooming in his mind’s eye like an explosion. Like a star, going supernova. 

He had to keep holding it, even as the cannon went off. 

_‘You must stay calm, my son.’_ His mother’s voice, in his mind. Her beautiful face, he could picture it. Warm smile lines around the edges of her mouth. 

He was so close. 

_‘You can do this. You can do this for Sherlock, for Gregory. You will do it. And they will see, that you can. You will remake the world in your image, my son. For them. You just have to hold your breath.’ _

Calm, Mycroft reasoned. Stay calm. Don’t let the shock slip in. Don’t let anything in. 

It hurts. The pain is burning through his veins, burning through him, setting him on fire. He is burning from the inside out and he wants to scream and thrash but he cannot. 

He has a knife buried in his chest. He has a knife buried in his chest that he put there for love of another. Love of Gregory, love of Sherlock, love of a world built on the ashes of desperation and despair. 

He has to hold his breath. 

The blackness itself is fading. He is losing consciousness, now. 

And he is lost. 

***

The crackling fire is what stirs him awake. 

Mycroft is standing, as his eyes drift open, as if he has been calmly asleep for a time. 

The old lounge stands around him. A place full of warmth and life. On the carpet in front of the fire sits Sherlock, a mound of black curls on his head. Small, thin hands fumble with the chess pieces on the ground in front of him, as he fiddles. Sherlock never did have the time for chess, Mycroft remembered. His little brother, with curls and deep blue eyes, could never sit still for long enough to place the pieces, let alone spend time moving them with intent. 

The eternal question being between them. Focus on a singular thing, compared to focus on everything. Chess was too wide for Sherlock. Too expansive. There were too many possibilities, too many potentials. 

Sherlock had always worked in absolutes, narrowing down a range of possibilities based on actions and clues in his victims. Yet Mycroft could see widely, see the world and know which pieces to move to make things fall into place the way he needed them too. 

Sherlock became endlessly focused on a single thing, seeing all things he set his mind to with a single-minded focus. Mycroft saw _everything. _Too much. All at once. 

It made his head hurt. 

‘Brother,’ said Mycroft, shaking his head and walking into the room, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock looked up at him with wide blue eyes out of a small face. He was younger than the last time Mycroft had seen him. His cheeks were rounder, his curls soft and silky. His shoulder was smaller and more delicate than Mycroft had seen. 

It was as if Sherlock was a butterfly, delicate and beautiful under his fingers. A beautiful, blue and grey butterfly, flickering in the wind. 

It took Mycroft for a moment. The image of a butterfly flickering in the sunset from the top of the fallen tower, back in the Arena, floating around as the smell of the water below bled through. 

‘Mycroft,’ replied Sherlock, his voice surprisingly low, and surprisingly soft. ‘Where are you?’ 

‘I do not know, Sherlock,’ replied Mycroft. 

‘What do you know?’ reasoned Sherlock, dropping the Bishop piece he was holding to the carpeted floor. The white piece bounced over the densely packed carpet, coming to a rest on its side, pointing towards the lounge chair done in grey wool, like the needle on a compass. 

‘This is our home, Sherlock. At least, it once was. Perhaps it shall be again.’ 

‘Sentiment,’ said Sherlock. 

‘It does rather seem that way, brother mine.’ 

‘You always were far more sentimental between us.’ 

‘You know as well as I do that is a lie, brother.’ 

Mycroft sighed, and bent down.

There was no pain in the action. Not even the ghostly pains of every day life seemed to bother him. 

‘Perhaps I have moved on. Perhaps this is what is next,’ said Mycroft, quietly, looking past Sherlock into the fire burning in the white, marble hearth. Above the hearth, the tele screen was open, a silent news broadcast playing. Mycroft, for some reason, couldn’t comprehend what the broadcast was about, or even what the reader’s face looked like. 

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ replied Sherlock, snorting, and looking down at his small, bare feet. 

There was silence. The fire crackled in the hearth, and Mycroft blinked, for a moment, allowing the richness of the conjured image to wash over him. He felt no hunger or thirst, the ghastly pain of the burning knife in his sternum had vanished. 

‘You are almost there, Mycroft,’ said Sherlock, a moment later. ‘Or, at least, you were.’ 

‘Almost where, Sherlock? What do you mean?’ 

‘You said to me once, in your eternal miserable sentiment, that you would rebuild the world for us. When mother died. Do not think I have forgotten.’ 

‘I have not,’ said Mycroft. ‘I will. I will do it for you, and I shall do it for Gregory, as I promised.’ 

‘Then why are you here?’ asked Sherlock. ‘Why are you not where you need to be?’ 

‘I do not know,’ replied Mycroft. ‘I cannot think of why.’ 

‘Yes, you can.’ 

Mycroft sighed, again, and leaned forwards to rest on his elbows. He steepled his fingers under his chin, and regarded his younger brother, who immediately moved to mimic his position, a far too old expression on his young face. 

‘I am here, I postulate, as a coping mechanism,’ said Mycroft, a moment later. ‘I am here because I am in immense pain. I may not survive. My mind is attempting to cope with this by constructing a scenario in which I am entirely calm, entirely at peace.’ 

‘Are you?’ 

Mycroft thought. His thoughts were sluggish, compared to normal. He could barely string one word to another in his mind. 

There was something hazy about this place. Hazy, around the edges, as if he were fading away. 

Perhaps he was. 

‘You are here.’ 

‘Sentiment,’ scoffed Sherlock. 

Mycroft sighed. ‘I know I told you to believe that. I know I was the one to tell you that sentiment is a foolish endeavour for those who wish to _lose. _To win, I must be impenetrable. I must be stone.

‘But it is harder than I imagined it to be. I feel like a child in an adult’s world for the first time in my life and I am flailing. 

‘Of course, I am admitting this to you in the knowledge that you will not know this.’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Sherlock, looking down, his curls bouncing. ‘For me, you must be strong - you must be stone. For everyone.’ 

‘Brother,’ sighed Mycroft. ‘I am tired. I am tired, and in pain, and I don’t want to do this anymore. I am fighting a war, constantly. It is exhausting.’ 

‘You are being weak.’ 

‘I am,’ nodded Mycroft. ‘But, perhaps, for a time, I want to be weak. I want to be gentle, and kind. Gregory is gentle, and kind.’ 

‘You cannot afford to be.’ 

‘I know this!’ 

Suddenly, a burst of great frustration built in Mycroft’s chest, and he couldn’t help but close his eyes and rub a hand over his face. ‘I know what it is I have to do. But it is not enough at the moment. 

‘Do you understand my dilemma, brother? He shan’t forgive me for this.’

‘Why does he matter so much?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Why does he matter more than I?’ 

‘I do not know. And I do know that he does not matter more than you, brother. But you are not all in this world, and as I have found, you are not all that I need. I need things I never thought I would before. 

‘All my calculations have been thrown off. We are done with the games now. We have won the battle, at least if my calculations are correct we have. And yet now we move into a greater game, as it were. A greater battle, a greater war. The last war, I should think. 

‘But I cannot do it alone, and he is throwing my calculations into the fire. I patched it up, over the course of the games, in the Arena. But now we move into a new, uncharted territory.’ 

‘No, my son,’ said a new voice, ‘you are not.’ 

Surprised, Mycroft looked up. 

Sitting in front of him, on the carpet, was his mother, her eyes soft, and kind. Her small hands were folded in her lap, her beautiful face composed and a gentle smile creasing her features. 

‘This is territory well-trod by the human race. The territory of sentiment is that which all men and women have struggled with, all throughout their lives. You must know this.’ 

‘I do, Mother,’ said Mycroft, looking down. ‘I am but one of many. But what I am saying is that it is new to me. I know of sentiment for my brother, for you, for Father. But never for another like him. For there is not another like him.’ 

She laughed, then, and reached out a hand to rest on Mycroft’s face. Leaning into her soft touch, Mycroft sighed. ‘It is hard, Mother. Hard in a way I do not know. It is not in any book I have read, not in any text I have studied, not in any experience I have before. I love him not as a brother, I care for him not as a general would for their soldiers.’ 

‘It is a mysterious thing, I know, my son.’ 

‘The war is out there, Mother. I must still fight it. And what I have done, I am not sure he will forgive me for it.’ 

‘You care for him, do you not?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft, hesitantly. ‘Of course.’ 

‘Then all, in the end, shall be well.’ 

‘For the first time, I feel such fear at the thought of losing, Mother,’ said Mycroft, rubbing a hand over his face, through thinning, red hair. ‘I feel such fear at the thought of losing. I thought, for such a long time, that this was inevitable. That _I _was inevitable. But now I see the truth. I could lose, just as easily as I could win.’ 

‘That is a lie, my son.’ 

‘How do you know that?!’ demanded Mycroft, feeling, once again, the deep sense of frustration. ‘You cannot know that I will win!’ 

‘Yes, my love, I can,’ she sighed. ‘You are going to win, for you want to win.’ 

‘That is not the way the world works,’ Mycroft snorted, for a moment feeling as Sherlock did. ‘I could so easily lose, don’t you see? I could not see it, before, but now I somehow have more to lose. More to lose, and I could more easily lose, now. Lose the battle, lose the war, lose…. everything. It would be so easy, suddenly.’ 

‘Oh, my dear,’ said his mother, gentling her thumb over his cheek. ‘You could have always lost. Don’t you see? It was always as possible as it is now. You are just vulnerable at the moment. You just sacrificed yourself for another, deeply hurting yourself and him in the process. And your deep affection for that young man has led you to this deep questioning. You question yourself as you grow more self-aware, more understanding of the situation you are now in, those you care about could be hurt, and you have no choice but to bear it. That is the nature of being alive, my son.’ 

Mycroft didn’t respond. There was too much in his mind, echoing around and bouncing off the walls and the floor and the ceiling, all trapped inside and driving him crazy. 

‘It’s too much,’ he whispered. ‘Too much. And to think of who Gregory is on top of that, what he _represents…_ His heritage, who his father was…’ 

‘It is quite the coincidence,’ his mother chuckled, bringing her hands down to clasp around his. ‘It is almost astonishing how, after all these years, you found him. You did not even have to try. We searched for so long… and there he was.’ 

‘I succeeded where you failed, I know,’ said Mycroft. ‘And I never intended it. I never intended it because the way I saw to victory did not take him into account. I never had to think what it could all mean for the future if indeed we found him.’ 

‘He is a symbol. You must use that, my son.’ 

‘I won’t,’ said Mycroft, shaking his head. ‘He is not just a symbol. He is not. I shan’t allow it.’ 

‘Don’t you see, my son?’ asked his mother, her eyes hardening. ‘You must!’ 

Her hands grew tighter around his. Mycroft looked away. ‘What he means for the future of the resistance, what he means to those in the Old Guard…’ 

‘That does not matter to me. Gregory is not a symbol. I shall not make him into one.’ 

‘You have no choice.’ 

‘I do,’ said Mycroft. ‘There is always a choice. I can win without turning him into something he is not for the sake of the war. He is innocent, Mother, don’t you see? He is as Sherlock is, innocent and free of this _understanding._ He doesn’t know who he is, what he represents. I intend to keep it that way.’ 

‘He already is a symbol. In that you had no choice. He is a symbol just as you are becoming a symbol. He must bear the weight of all that means. This is just another way in which he is a symbol.’

‘This truth carries the weight of an inheritance,’ said Mycroft, his voice dark, and shaky. ‘I know something of what that is.’

‘An inheritance you can use,’ said his mother. 

‘I do not want to.’ 

‘It doesn’t matter what you want. Remember what I told you, Mycroft, the day I died. Remember what Culverton said. All that matters is the war.’ 

‘That cannot be true,’ Mycroft said, shaking his head. ‘There are other things. There is a world after the war.’ 

‘You will have time for that after the war is won, and only then.’ 

Mycroft pulled his hands from his mother’s clasp, throwing himself to his feet. 

The thought of that, the thought that all that mattered was the war was something he had thought on. Something he had considered, laying there in that dirty sleeping bag on the floor of the skyscraper, looking out over a dark mass of water, Gregory snoozing on his shoulder. It was something he had considered as he had allowed the thin, silver strands of Gregory’s hair to fall through his long fingers. 

For so long, that had been his life. For so long, all that mattered was the war, was saving Sherlock. 

But in him, deep in a place he had thought not to exist, bred thoughts of a world beyond the war. A fair world. A _good _world, for _good _people, like Gregory. A place where he and Gregory could live their lives as perhaps they could have if they were born into a world which was already fair. 

‘There’s no point, Mycroft,’ said his mother, her voice cool, from behind him. ‘There’s no point speculating about what could have been, because this is what _is. _If you want a world that is fair, you must build it for yourself. The only justice we get is that which we make for ourselves.’ 

‘The only justice we get is that which we make for ourselves,’ repeated Mycroft. ‘You told me that a thousand times, in a thousand different ways.’ 

‘It is true,’ said his mother, her hand resting on his shoulder. ‘That is the only truth of the world.’ 

‘I know,’ said Mycroft, dropping his shoulders, his head falling. The frustration was rising once more. ‘But if I do not speculate about what _could have been, _how will I build a world that is as it should be? Just, fair, a _good _world?’ 

There was no reply. His mother’s hand had gone, the weight of it vanished from his shoulder. 

Mycroft took in a breath, a heavy breath that weighed in his lungs. He bore himself straight once more, just as he should. The muscle memory of a thousand instructions echoed through him, the smell of blood and sweat burning suddenly in his nostrils. 

‘Mycroft?’ 

Suddenly, a familiar voice echoed through the room, from behind him. Turning away from the fire, surprise curling through his veins, Mycroft saw that Gregory had appeared from thin air. 

He was just as Mycroft had remembered; scruffy silver hair, tan skin, smile lines. Deep brown, almond eyes grinning at him, a pert nose and white teeth shining out of a handsome face. Strong arms, dirt-scuffed clothes, narrow hips and stout legs, all collected together to form something greater than their individual parts. 

The sight of him took Mycroft’s breath away. 

A smile creased those features, the likes of which Mycroft had never truly been faced with before. ‘Are you okay, love?’ 

‘I do not know, Gregory,’ replied Mycroft, honestly. ‘On balance, I believe I may have seen better days.’ 

Gregory threw his head back, and let out a loud laugh, his amusement rocking his whole body. Mycroft immediately felt a sudden wave of joy overtake him, shaking through his veins and into his aching lungs. He felt starved of this, all of a sudden. All that time with his family, all those words from his mother, all those questions from his brother, all of it suddenly did not seem to matter. 

He knew it would eventually come rushing back, all of it, just as the fire in the hearth to their left was consuming the logs fed into it, but for now the fire was at bay, a calm, glowing coal under the surface. 

‘You’re too much sometimes, My,’ said Gregory, his face creasing. ‘Come here.’ 

Immediately, Mycroft obeyed, before he even registered that he wanted to do it. He stepped within grasping range of the shorter man. Gregory immediately reached out and grasped Mycroft, pulling him in and tucking his head under Mycroft’s chin, just as he had that time in the sleeping bag in the sky scraper. 

Automatically, Mycroft wrapped his own arms around Gregory, wrapping around his waist, and pressing a gentle kiss to the silver hair on his head. 

‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there, love?’ asked Gregory, his voice gravelly. 

‘Yes,’ replied Mycroft. ‘There is something I must do.’ 

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ 

‘I do not know.’ 

Gregory leaned back, and smiled up at Mycroft, before tugging him towards where the lounge was on the other side of the room. ‘Fancy, this place is,’ he commented. 

Mycroft let a small smile out over his features. 

He had never really thought of his home as “fancy” as Gregory had put it, but compared to what Gregory had described to him as his home, a cottage on top of a hill, a hut, really, he supposed it was. 

‘Come on,’ said Gregory, tugging Mycroft down to lay on the lounge just the way the silver-haired Tribute demanded, then laying down himself. ‘This is more comfy than what we had back in that Arena, hey love?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Mycroft, enraptured by the fashion in which Gregory had positioned himself, resting his head next to Mycroft’s on the armrest, his shoulder on the seat, leaning forwards to press his forehead against Mycroft’s own. His deep, brown eyes stared into Mycroft’s, a sort of wisdom shining through. 

‘So?’ 

Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. He didn’t even know where to start. Gregory smiled, comfortingly. ‘Take all the time you need, love. I’m right here.’ 

‘It feels strange to me,’ said Mycroft. ‘I spoke truly to you in the Arena of my troubles. But I simply do not know where to start with this.’ 

‘Do what I do, then,’ said Gregory. ‘Just start talking. Eventually you’ll hit on it.’ 

Mycroft chuckled, an almost saddened sound. ‘And therein lies the crux of the problem, my dear. I am not you. I never could be.’ 

‘Nah,’ said Gregory, shaking his head. ‘You don’t need to be me, you just gotta be you. That’s what I tell John.’ 

‘I am trying hard to give you everything you deserve. But I do not know if I can do it. I may lose. Then there is the matter of who you are. And you don’t even know.’ 

Gregory bit his lip, small teeth sinking into the soft curve. 

‘My mother is right. You are a symbol of everything that I must fight this war for. This is a war I inherited, a war that I must fight, and that if I do not win, my brother may have to fight after me. I do not wish that.

‘You could win me the war. You could win it for us. You, and everything you represent.’ 

‘I am not some Silver Knight,’ said Gregory. ‘Just like you said. You’re not a god.’ 

‘No, I am not,’ sighed Mycroft. ‘But perhaps I wish that I were.’ 

‘You don’t,’ said Gregory, shaking his head. ‘I know you better than that. You’re too human to want to be a god.’ 

‘You know, my dear, you are the first person to truly call me human.’ 

Gregory sighed, and leaned forwards, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s in a dry, chaste kiss that was filled with the promise of more. A promise that may not be fulfilled, but stood despite that. ‘I know,’ said Gregory, a moment later. ‘I think that’s sad. You’re so human, more human that anyone I know.’ 

‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Mycroft. ‘It has been something I have struggled with before, the idea that I do not care as much as a normal man should. You all care, so much. It is astonishing to me.’ 

‘All people are different, I reckon,’ shrugged Gregory, getting closer, if that was at all possible. ‘All people, I reckon, feel things differently. But you care about me, don’t you? You cared about me so much you nearly died for me. To me, that’s something else.’ 

‘Thank you,’ repeated Mycroft, softly, placing two fingers under Gregory’s chin and lifting it to press another chaste kiss to those enchanting lips. 

It was like some sort of intoxicating drug, really. Mycroft wanted to do nothing more than stay here instead, stay here and kiss Gregory by the fire, on the lounge. 

But that wasn’t an option. 

Already, he could feel the burn in his chest returning. The hot lance of pain that had begun when he had plunged that dagger into himself, and the ghost of which was returning now. The room was growing hazy around the edges, soft and out of focus, even as he continued to kiss Gregory. 

It was all beginning to fade away, all of it. 

‘Just a moment longer,’ Mycroft whispered against his lover’s lips, ‘I beg it of you.’ 

The world went dark once more. 

***

The weight of the wound was heavy on his chest, somehow. The beeping of the machines around him, the feel of the glass breathing mask on his face, IV hooked up to his arm, all these sensations assaulted him in a single split second. 

He wanted to scream. 

The beeping of the machine grew more insistent, as he felt the deep wound in his chest the strongest, and the first. He was panicking, he knew it, but there was nothing else to be done. 

The wound in his sternum was deep, it bit into him, straight through him, as if it would puncture straight out the other side. 

He knew logically it didn’t. 

He realised he knew many things, logically, in that moment. None of which was truly helpful. He knew he was in a safe place, that Mike Stamford had done exactly as he had asked. He knew that he was alive. He knew that he was safe, that he was out of the Arena. 

But it didn’t seem to matter. 

He was in pain. Such pain he had never known. 

‘Ah good,’ said a voice, suddenly. ‘You’re awake.’ 

Shuddering, Mycroft calmed his breaths. He had no other choice. 

Sucking a breath in through his mouth, from the mask, he forced his eyes open. His eyelids felt like they were weighed down with a thousand lead weights, all dragging them to his cheeks with tiny little hooks through the skin. 

He forced them open anyway. 

‘I wasn’t sure you were going to make it there for a moment, Holmes,’ said the former Game-maker. ‘It was a bit touch and go there.’ 

‘You know my methods,’ croaked Mycroft. ‘It went exactly as I planned it.’ 

‘That is not true, brother. You and I both know it.’ 

Mycroft twisted his head, uncomfortably. ‘Sherlock?’ 

‘I am gracing you with my presence, yes,’ Sherlock muttered, sullenly crossing his arms where he was standing by Mycroft’s hip. 

‘Delightful,’ said Mycroft, groaning once more. ‘Update?’ he asked, turning back to Stamford. 

‘Come now, Mycroft, old chap,’ said Stamford, shaking his head. ‘You’ve only just woken up. Give yourself some time.’ 

‘There is no time,’ grunted Mycroft. Slowly, he reached up, trying to take the mask off his face. 

‘No, don’t do that!’ insisted Stamford. ‘Just rest, Mycroft. It’ll be alright. Everything is under control.’ 

‘For once,’ said Sherlock, ‘Stamford speaks the truth. Smith does not require your presence tomorrow, despite being a bumbling oaf, it is not that hard to run an underground resistance base.’ 

‘We are running out of time,’ insisted Mycroft, shaking his head as much as he could. It felt like his head had been trapped in a vice, the mask’s strap tight around his skull, biting into the tips of his ears. 

‘Stamford,’ said Sherlock, his small frame hardening, drawing himself higher. ‘Get out.’ 

‘Sherlock!’ Mycroft admonished, frowning out from his mask. ‘Be polite.’ 

‘I shan’t,’ insisted Sherlock. 

‘Sherlo—‘

‘—It’s fine, Holmes,’ said Stamford, shaking his round head fondly, and crossing his arms over his chest. ‘I understand your brother probably wants to catch up with you. He hasn’t seen you in person in weeks, hasn’t talked to you in over a month.’ 

Mycroft didn’t have the energy, he realised, to protest. For a moment, it felt like the weight of the wound was sapping the very life from him. He sighed into the mask. ‘Very well, Stamford. I do apologise for my brother’s rudeness.’ 

Stamford waved it away with his hand. 

‘I would ask you to answer a few questions before you leave?’ 

‘I can answer them!’ insisted Sherlock, his curls shaking with indignation. ‘I already know what they are, anyway!’ 

‘Sherlock, I will speak with you in but a moment. Stamford, would you answer my questions?’ 

‘Of course, Mycroft,’ nodded Stamford, turning to look back at him. 

‘Where is he?’ 

‘Who?’ asked Stamford, confused for a moment before clarity swept over his features. ‘Ah. I see. The Silver Knight was crowned Victor of the 74th Hunger Games. He was then sent back to District Ten, where I believe he is rebuilding his life.’ 

Mycroft pursed his lips, and nodded tightly. ‘I see.’ 

There was a moment of dead silence. 

‘I meant to ask you about that, Holmes,’ said Stamford, raising a finger. 

‘I will not answer,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Not for now. I shall answer your questions eventually, Stamford. I do require some time, though.’ 

‘I see,’ said Stamford. Nothing else was said. 

‘I do have another question,’ said Mycroft. ‘What progress has been made by Culverton?’ 

‘I wouldn’t know,’ replied Stamford. ‘He hasn’t told me much. Just that all current members of the resistance are healthy and well, and that there are plans in the works.’ 

‘I see,’ repeated Mycroft, parroting Stamford’s words. 

Stamford sighed. ‘We’ll get there, Holmes. We will.’ 

Sherlock let out a great sigh. ‘Oh, enough of this. Get out, Stamford.’ 

Stamford said nothing more, bowing his head and ducking out of the room. 

Mycroft turned to his younger brother. ‘Sherlock, that was rude.’ 

Sherlock let out a loud snort. ‘I don’t care.’ 

Reaching up, Mycroft took ahold of his mask, now there was no one to protest, and removed it from his face. Immediately, the wash of fresh, clean oxygen stopped, and the suddenly musty, stale air of the underground base washed through his lungs. It hurt, suddenly, the aching pain of an unfamiliar, impure air bursting through him. 

His chest hurt. 

‘Are you alright, brother mine? How did you fare while I was in the Arena?’ 

‘Fine,’ said Sherlock. He deigned to say nothing more. 

Mycroft could already feel the headache of his younger brother setting in. ‘Sherlock, I know there is something you wish to discuss. Why else would you have sent Stamford from the room in such rude fashion otherwise?’ 

‘I wanted to speak with you,’ replied Sherlock, ‘And only you. And I do not wish to answer inane questions.’ 

‘What questions have you of me, then?’ 

‘What was that?’ he asked, ‘In the Arena, with that silver-haired idiot?’ 

‘I ask myself the same question.’ 

‘You always told me caring isn’t an advantage. You scoffed at the thought of sentiment, and yet in the Arena I saw such a display of sentiment it practically made me ill.’ 

Mycroft shuffled over on the bed, then. He pushed the wires and tubes out of the way, gently, and patted the space next to him. No further hints were needed, as the younger boy hopped up onto the bed, long, thin limbs flailing. Gently, he lay back, black curls curving around his head in a halo on the mattress. 

Gently, Mycroft reached up a hand, and rested it on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock scoffed, but didn’t push it aside. 

‘There are some things that even I cannot understand. That perhaps we cannot understand. Sherlock, you and I are limited in what we know, is what I realised.’ 

‘No,’ he replied. ‘We’re not. We can’t be.’ 

‘It seems that we are,’ replied Mycroft. ‘There are things I cannot know. Things you cannot know. It is just the way of the world.’ 

‘I don’t understand the things I saw. I saw you kissing that boy, the dirty one from District Ten. I saw you die for him, when you told me you were going to win! You were here, in this bed, and you were dying, and I don’t know…’ 

Sherlock trailed off, then. 

‘Has hell frozen over?’ snorted Mycroft. ‘Or did you just admit you didn’t know something? I didn’t believe you capable.’ 

‘I am capable!’ insisted Sherlock, shrugging indignantly. ‘I don’t know some things. There, see?! I admitted it!’ 

Mycroft chuckled, and ruffled Sherlock’s hair, fondly. ‘I suppose. It is a difficult thing to admit you do not know something, brother. But I too admit I don’t know some things as well. Although, perhaps less that I didn’t know before I went into the Arena.’ 

‘Sentiment,’ said Sherlock. 

There was a moment of silence, then. Interrupted only by the ever-present beeping of the machines. Sherlock was quiet next to him, silently fidgeting with the blankets. Mycroft allowed himself to relax for a moment. 

‘What’s going to happen now, Mycroft?’ asked Sherlock, a moment later, his voice quiet. ‘I want to know.’ 

‘Well,’ said Mycroft, his voice low. ‘We are going to fight a war, Sherlock.’ 

‘I know,’ Sherlock shook his head. ‘That part, at least. You and Mummy were always speaking of it. The great war, the war to make things the way you want them to be.’ 

‘The way they should be, Sherlock,’ insisted Mycroft. 

‘How do you know the way the world should be? What about everyone else, all the people like Culverton and Stamford and that scruffy boy from District Ten?’ 

‘We shall ask them, Sherlock,’ replied Mycroft. 

Sherlock snorted. ‘Pointless question. What do they know?’ 

‘Everything,’ Mycroft replied. 

‘Not more than us.’ 

‘There are lots of people, Sherlock. All people know all different sorts of things. Monstrous things, good things, all the things in between. You and I perhaps know more than most, but at what cost?’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Nothing for you to concern yourself with now,’ said Mycroft, shaking his head free of dark thoughts for a moment. ‘Perhaps ever, if I should have a say in it.’ 

There was silence. Sherlock fidgeted for a moment longer, before sitting upright in the bed, and pushing himself off in one violent movement. It rocked the whole mattress, leaving Mycroft to wince as a lance of pain shot straight through his core. The small boy slid to the floor, landing with a soft thud, before turning back to look at Mycroft with blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

‘You’re different, brother,’ said Sherlock, shaking his head. ‘There’s something wrong with you.’ 

‘Aside from the wound in my chest, I assume?’ 

Sherlock did nothing more than roll his eyes. 

‘I have changed, Sherlock. That is what happens, in the real world.’ 

‘Shut up,’ grunted Sherlock. ‘I don’t like it. You were an overbearing prick before, and now it’s worse.’ 

‘Where did you learn such language, Sherlock?!’ demanded Mycroft. 

Sherlock did nothing but shrug, insolently. Mycroft sighed. 

‘Yes,’ he murmured, after a moment of silence. ‘I have changed. That is the nature of the game that I had to play. The battle I had to fight. I killed people, Sherlock. I inadvertently caused the death of innocents, and I caused the death of innocents directly, as well.’ 

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I saw. But you’ve killed people before the Games, too. People who tried to hurt me, who tried to hurt you. What’s the difference?’ 

Mycroft couldn’t physically reply. There was no response he could think of off the top of his head. 

The question sat there, joining the already pressing pain in his chest, infecting his lungs and aching in his veins. ‘I am tired, Sherlock. I don’t know the answer for now. Perhaps one day I can tell you.

‘This is the kind of injustice we must fight, Sherlock. That I must fight. For you, for Gregory, for all the innocents who have been sent into the Games before me, and to save the lives of the innocents who will be sent into the Games after me should I not succeed.’ 

‘Why can’t we just leave?’ 

‘Because you are not a coward, Sherlock. And neither am I.’ 

Sherlock bit his lip, and looked down at his feet. 

Around the edges of his vision, Mycroft could feel the weight of unconsciousness creeping in. The pain was aching through him, his veins felt like they were burning. He could even feel the prickling of tears behind his eyes, at the thought of all that had happened, and all that he needed to do. A deep frustration was welling through him. 

For a moment, it was easier to just escape. 

So, he did.


	2. Flee

_‘Panem is ours, my brothers, my sisters. All we must do is reach out and take it.’_

Mycroft’s face faded then, back into static. His handsome features leached of colour, then lost definition and texture. Greg, for a moment, wanted to reach out and take ahold of Mycroft’s face, even through the impenetrable wall of the tele screen. 

He wanted to reach out and lay a hand on Mycroft’s warm cheek, run a thumb under Mycroft’s tired eyes, across his jaw and over his cheekbones. He wanted to press fingers to Mycroft’s pulse, to feel his heart beating like it hadn’t done on the clock tower all those months ago. 

The world around him had gone sluggish, he realised. There was a sort of whistling sound in his ears, as the edges of his vision turned fuzzy. It was as if everything around him was in water, moving almost hysterically slowly. The tele screen had faded to black now, but Greg could only experience things as treacle dripping down a spoon. 

He was alive. 

Mycroft was alive. 

The first, overwhelming thing Greg could feel was relief. He felt as if a ten ton weight had lifted from his chest. as if he were able to breathe again after months of choking and struggling underwater. It felt like he was finally able to fill his lungs again, the relief pricking like white hot needles behind his eyes. He could feel tears welling up in the corners of his aching eyes, clouding his vision. 

Joy suddenly ricocheted through his veins in a way Greg had never truly felt before. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest, and suddenly a wave of adrenaline overcame him, making his limbs shake and his fingers tremble. The joy and the relief mixed together to create a heady combination Greg could remember from his time in the hospital in the Capitol on morphling, like the few times he had taken drugs. It was intoxicating and rich, a sensuous mix of sensations that overwhelmed him like a tidal wave. 

For a moment, the echo of Mycroft’s very alive features still moving replayed in his head. 

A war cry. Mycroft had called for war, had called for vengeance and violence in words that people could rally behind. 

It was so very characteristic of him Greg could barely breathe with it. The magic of Mycroft’s words swept through him, the magnificence of everything Mycroft was, and everything he could be made Greg feel so very alive in a way he hadn’t for months. 

For months, and months. 

And now here he was again. Here he was, risen from the dead, like a zombie. 

Like a god, whispered a small voice in the back of Greg’s head. 

Except not. 

Mycroft had made so very clear how much he abhorred the very idea of being a god on the roof of the skyscraper those months ago. He abhorred it, and yet here he was, godlike in all his glory. 

Yet…

Suddenly, Greg felt an enormous sense of grief, anger and betrayal. 

Why?! he wanted to scream at the universe. 

Why now? Why hadn’t Mycroft come back for him earlier? Why hadn’t he come back to Greg? Was that not fair? 

Did Mycroft not say he cared for Greg? Cared for him enough to at least save him from the abject misery and tragedy he had been stewing in for five _fucking _months?

Greg’s hands were shaking for a very different reason, suddenly. 

‘…okay?!’

Suddenly, the outside world filtered back in. Sally was standing in front of Greg, her hands on his shoulders, shaking Greg’s trembling form with force, as if he were a blanket she was beating the dust from. ‘Greg?!’ 

Greg blinked.

The world came rushing back in an overwhelming caesura of sights and smells, sounds and touches. The shaking Sally was administering was almost too much, Greg could barely bare it. Both John’s small, warm hands were wrapped around his lower arm, gripping tightly like a vice, tiny nails digging into his skin. Sally’s messy, natural hair blocked out the artificial lights of his home, casting an odd shadow over his eyes. 

Beside him, Charlotte and Alex were chattering away, their voices high-pitched. For some reason, Greg couldn’t make out what it was they were saying, as if they were speaking a different language. It was a strange, foreign experience, as he turned his head about, trying to make sense of the suddenly shifted world in which he lived. 

Mycroft had died. 

He had died in Greg’s arms. 

Greg could still see it, every time he closed his eyes, as Mycroft’s blood fled his face, seeping out of the wound in the centre of his chest, the knife sticking out grotesquely. 

Greg could still see it, the horrible stillness of the other Tribute’s hands, limp in his own as if they were made of rubber. The hands of the peacekeepers, trying to pull them apart. 

Mycroft’s final words to him.

_‘Do not cry, my love.’ _

Those words. The last of them, or so Greg had thought. The magic tricks, the illusions. 

The illusions of death, more like.

The irony of it didn’t escape him. It all added to the swampy mess of emotions roiling through his veins, squeezing his lungs and clamping his head tight. He couldn’t even begin to _think,_ it was just… too hard. 

He needed to breathe. He needed the cool air of the night in his lungs, the wind on his face. The smell of the fields at night… that would help. It had to. 

Greg sprung up in a sudden burst of movement, springing to his feet and slamming out the door, clutching a hand to his suddenly aching head. His somehow clumsy feet stumbled over the small red brick steps out the front of his familiar home, out onto the grassy hill overlooking the tiny village below. 

It all seemed too familiar to be real. 

There was the main road into the village, the small market dark in the night, the lights of the other little houses with their tiny gas burners. Molly’s house, sitting to the right a distance from the town on their own little plot of land. The copse of trees at the base of the hill he knew a camera from the Capitol resided in. 

He couldn’t even think about that right at the moment. 

Clouds scudded overhead, moving through the sky sluggishly, pale against the dark of the night. Stars glinted like pinpricks overhead, shimmering and casting a dull glow over Greg’s face. The light of the moon cast his hands in silver and grey, as if they were made of stone. 

He had to focus. 

The swamp in his mind was whirling and turning like a whirlpool, thrashing like the ocean under the skeletal skyscraper that first night. The sense memory of that night overwhelmed him for a moment. 

The feeling of Mycroft leaning up against him, a long length of warmth at his side. The heartbeat, and the rise and fall of that strong chest under his fingers, peering out at an unknown enemy, who now seemed so small.

‘Greg?’

Suddenly, Greg heard the soft voice of John from behind him. 

Sucking in a deep breath of the cool, calming night air, Greg turned, and forced a smile onto his face. ‘John? What is it?’ 

John didn’t reply, just looked up at Greg with wide, gleaming blue eyes, before he reached out a hand and lay it on Greg’s lower arm. ‘Mycroft… he’s alive?’ 

‘I think so,’ replied Greg, with a low laugh. ‘At least… I hope so. If not…’ 

He couldn’t bear to finish that sentence. 

If Mycroft was just a simulation from the Capitol… Greg didn’t know if he could survive that level of cruelty. 

For the first time in a few months, Greg felt all the pain and grief stripped raw again, somehow. Stripped back like those first few days after Mycroft’s death, in the Capitol. 

It felt like that, again. 

Like that sort of sluggish understanding, the dulled blade of deep, deep grief sinking into his side. 

‘He was calling for war,’ said John, in a soft, quiet voice. Greg looked down at John again. 

The small, blond boy was looking down at his feet, one hand clasped around Greg’s forearm, the other twisting and curling around in unnatural shapes. Greg could see John had also sunk small, pearly white teeth into his lower lip, and was shifting from foot to foot, nervous. 

Immediately, a wave of sorrow of a new kind swept through Greg. A new kind of sadness. 

He didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have time to get lost in his own head, in all his feelings and thoughts. That was too selfish, too much for himself and his own needs. 

John needed him. 

That was the deal. 

Greg took in another breath, and pushed it all away for the moment. All the anger, grief, joy, relief, all those confusing, conflicting things that took up far too much room, he brutally pushed it aside. 

Instead, he hunched over, sitting back on his heels so he was down at John’s height. He clasped both John’s hands in his own, and squeezed as best he could. 

‘What do you think just happened, little soldier?’ asked Greg, his voice as kind and steady as he could make it. 

No small feat. 

‘That man… Mycroft —‘ 

John trailed off for a moment, his forehead creased in thought. 

A far too old expressions for a young boy’s face. 

‘—you were with him in the Arena. You kissed him.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Greg. 

‘But he died.’ 

‘He did,’ Greg managed to get out, his voice shaking more than he would have wanted it to. 

‘And now he’s alive again.’ 

‘It seems that way.’ No matter how impossible that seemed to be. 

‘He said things,’ John continued, seeming to become more sure in what it was he wanted to say. ‘On the tele screen. When the President was supposed to be speaking.’ 

‘He did say things,’ said Greg. 

‘What does it mean?’ 

Greg sighed. A moment of silence passed, then. John’s forehead creased, further, his small eyes, washed of colour, narrowed. 

‘There are different things that it could mean, Johnny,’ said Greg, a beat later. ‘Mycroft is speaking of cruelty. The cruelty that took your parents from you, my parents from me. He is speaking of cruelty that made me go fight in that Arena in the first place.’ 

‘The Capitol?’ 

‘Maybe, little soldier,’ said Greg. ‘Maybe.’ 

‘I don’t want there to be a war,’ mumbled John, scuffing his feet into the dirt. 

Greg, for a moment, questioned whether John truly knew what a war meant. What it meant for their way of life, and what it meant for them personally. 

‘I don’t think we have a choice. At least, I don’t think _I _have a choice.’ 

‘What does that mean?’ asked John, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Greg could feel tears prickling behind his eyes again. It wasn’t fair. But it never really was. 

All he had ever tried to do was give John the best life he could. The fairest life he could, with food on the table and water to drink. A treat, every now and then. 

But he could feel it in his bones. The world had shifted when he had gone into the Arena, and here it was, shifting like sand under his feet once again. This time, though, it was going to take everything and everyone with it. 

At least with the Games, it was a single time. John would see it, but then they would get on with their lives. They would keep growing crops and raising livestock, and eventually things would feel normal again. 

But Mycroft’s face and Mycroft’s mind, the magical words that always seemed to have spilled from his mouth… now it was going to change the world. 

That shook Greg to his core. It was such a sudden change he didn’t think he could comprehend how fundamental it was. 

The theory of rebellion was there, always. In Sally’s anger, in his own grief after the Games. After Mycroft’s loss. 

But now… it was so very tangible. So very real… Greg didn’t know how to deal with that on top of the very fact of Mycroft’s resurrection. 

‘GREG!’ 

Greg turned at the sound of his name to see that Dimmock was running up the hill, his pants heard even from this distance. 

He had clearly just rolled off his couch, an empty bottle of wine in one hand, and a small, glowing, blue device int he other. He was completely barefoot, mousy brown and grey hair flying around his head. For a Victor, his clothes were ratty and worn. 

As he drew level, he drew to a halt, panting and leaning forwards, his hands on his knees. 

‘Dimmock?’ asked Greg, his voice shaking. ‘What’s wrong?’ 

‘Just…’ panted the other Victor, ‘gotta… gotta go…’ 

‘Go where, Dimmock?’ asked Greg, urgently, getting to his feet. ‘What’s wrong?!’ 

Dimmock finally seemed to catch his breath, just as the door to the house flew open, and Sally, Maya and Molly poured out, Charlotte, Alex and Sam following quickly behind them, tottering along on their small legs, serious looks on their faces. 

‘Greg, you have to get out, now!’ Dimmock burst out, his face clenching up in a wheeze. ‘They’re coming for you.’

‘Why are they coming for me?’ asked Greg. ‘Why do I matter so much?’ 

‘You don’t understand, Greg,’ said Dimmock. ‘You’re the Silver Knight. Your symbol is everywhere, it is the face of the rebellion that Holmes boy has just started. The Capitol needs you.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘No. I’m not a symbol. I refuse.’ 

‘You don’t get a choice!’ said Dimmock, angrily. ‘You never got a choice.’ 

Greg bit his lip, and looked down to see that John had clasped both his hands around Greg’s forearm again, and was looking up at him. 

Then, he glanced back at the people behind him, who had paused on the hill above himself, John and Dimmock. Sally was standing in front, holding Maya’s hand, beside her Molly had her hands clasped nervously in front of her, her teeth sunk into her lip. Behind them, the three other little kids peered anxiously around the older three. 

Greg swallowed, dryly. 

‘I need to get to Mycroft,’ he said. ‘Do you know where he is?’ 

Dimmock rolled his eyes. ‘Of course I don’t know where the Resistance is. That’s not how this works, Greg.’ 

‘Then we need to get into the forest between the districts.’ 

‘Exactly,’ said Dimmock. ‘You need to run.’ 

‘No,’ Greg said, shaking his head. ‘They need to run. They need to get out of the District, they need to head away from where the cameras are. The Capitol is watching us, I know they are. It’s just like in the Arena.’ 

Dimmock frowned. ‘What about you? You’re the most valuable person here; they don’t care about anyone else. Not about any of your little friends. Just you.’ 

‘Well, I care about them!’ Greg bit back, his jaw clenched. ‘They have to get to safety.’ 

‘There are going to be people coming for you, Greg. They’re going to be looking for you. The faster they can get you into Capitol custody, the better.’ 

Greg nodded, sharply, again, biting back the wave of emotion that once again threatened to overcome him. 

Taking John’s hand in his own, he stumbled back up the hill towards Sally, Maya and Molly, tugging John along with him. 

‘Greg, what’s going on? Why is Dimmock here?’ asked Sally, her voice shaky, as she grasped Maya’s hand in one of her own, her other hand on Alex’s. 

‘We need to leave. Come on, you need to grab some warm clothes out of my house, then head out into the forest.’ 

‘Why?!’ demanded Sally. ‘Why can’t we just stay here, it’s like you said to Dimmock, they don’t care about us.’ 

‘You need to get picked up by the Resistance first,’ said Greg. ‘This is just like the Careers hunting me down in the Arena. They will care about you only when they can’t find me. So you have more time than I do.’ 

‘Greg—‘ began Molly, but Greg just held up a hand. 

Adrenaline was suddenly surging through his veins. It helped to stopper up the wave of emotions that was bubbling just beneath the surface, just waiting to burst out and collapse on top of him like an inevitable tide. 

But this was helping. This burst of action, purpose, intent. It would get him where he needed to go. 

Quickly, Greg ushered everyone back into the house, recalling what he could remember of where the cameras were located near his house. Luckily he had picked a more remote spot, from what he could recall the only surveillance one nearby was the one in the copse of trees. Thank goodness for the back door. 

‘Sally, Molly, come here. Grab this food, and pack it into a bag.’ 

Greg threw open the door to the pantry, where he had stocked up as much as he could on salted meats and dried fruits, food that wouldn’t perish and would keep them alive. He also pulled two bags, one larger, one smaller, from the pantry, and held them open. 

‘Maya, can you come and grab warm coats from John’s closet for all the kids please?’ 

Maya nodded, her frown deepening, as she followed Greg through into the bedrooms, as he threw open the closet doors and began pulling out clothing at random. Maya picked out a few of the larger, bulkier pieces that would stand up to the cold nights, as Greg turned and went for the bedding. 

Sheets, blankets, anything that would make what they were about to do more comfortable, he threw it all into another medium sized bag, along with a couple more things like medical packs. 

Then, Greg rushed into a his bedroom, throwing himself to the floor and throwing a hand under the bed. Sweeping around, he finally found what he had been looking for. In his hand, slightly dusty, he held his old, wooden pendant. He didn’t have time to write Mycroft a letter, but he had enough time to do this. 

The small wooden sword inside the circle had meant so much to him, but he now had the new one John had made for him when he’d gotten back from the Games. This old one, the old one he had taken with him into the Arena, would mean something to Mycroft. 

If Mycroft was really out there. 

Greg quickly held his hands over the pendant, gently bringing it to his face and pressing a soft kiss to the centre piece, as if he could really reach through the window of time and press the kiss to Mycroft’s cheek instead. 

But he couldn’t. 

For now, he took the pendant and shoved it into a pocket in the bag he was going to give Sally. She would know what it was for, and if she got to Mycroft, she would give it to him. 

Then, casting the thought from his mind, he left his room behind.

Grabbing the three bags, he then marched back out into the living room, and began to viciously compact them until there was enough room for him to throw in fire starters and other essential things. 

Then, leaving the bags sitting on the lounge in front of the still-dark tele screen, he pushed past Alex, John, Lottie and Sam, who had all gathered nervously in the lounge area, staring as the three elder ones rushed about them in a frenzy of movement. 

Greg went towards the closet in the hall, sliding it open before falling to the floor and propping open the loose floorboard that he had hid the weapons in. 

His old sword was on top of the pile, slightly worn and musty even compared to the one he had held in the Arena. He also dug out the knives, and even an old hammer, piling the metal instruments in a neat stack beside him. 

So occupied was he with the task he didn’t notice Sally until she tapped him on the shoulder, and said his name. 

‘What?!’ Greg snapped, not turning to look up at her. Not until she bent to the ground next to him, and stayed his hands for a moment. 

‘What are you doing, Greg?’ asked Sally, her voice grim. 

‘I…. I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I’m doing as Dimmock said. Getting you out, and getting myself out.’ 

‘You know as well as I do that’s a lie.’ 

Greg sighed. ‘Whaddyou want me to say, Sal?’ 

‘Tell me the truth,’ replied Sally, no-nonsense. ‘I want to know what you’ve got planned, and exactly how stupid it is.’

‘The Capitol is coming for me. Dimmock demonstrated that.’ 

‘What did that fucking _drunk _say to you?!’ she demanded. Greg grit his teeth. 

‘You know what they’re turning me into. You said it yourself. I’m a symbol, now. A symbol of some stupid fucking rebellion that I didn’t even sign up for.’ 

‘So what?’ 

‘Sally, symbols are powerful. You know that as well as I do. I’m the stupid Silver Knight, now. I’m a symbol of the fight for freedom, for justice, for what’s right, or something like that. And Mycroft, on the tele screen, he just declared war. He declared war under my banner, don’t you get it?’ 

‘Of course I do,’ snapped Sally. ‘I don’t care about that. I care about you.’ 

Greg snorted. ‘You care more about this idea of rebellion than I ever did, Sal.’ 

‘You told me earlier, when we were in the barn, that you did care. That you don’t think what’s happening is right. That you think I was right for being angry about the unfairness of it.’ 

‘Sal, we don’t have time for this—‘

‘— If we don’t have time now, then when?’ 

Greg didn’t have an answer for that. 

Sally shook her head. ‘Greg, I know I said I’m angry. And if this were different, I would be urging you to do it. To take the place of the Silver Knight, to be a rallying cry. But right now, you’re pulling knives out of your cupboard, and you have this horrible _look _on your face. I don’t know. I just…. don’t know.’ 

‘Well, I don’t either, Sal,’ said Greg. ‘All I know is I need you to be safe. And this is how.’ 

Quickly, Greg scooped up one of the knives. ‘You gotta take this with you, Sal. I’ve got supplies ready, you need to head out the back door, and head towards the border of the District. You need to be in a spot where Mycroft can find you. He knows who you are, I told him during the Games.’ 

‘What about you?’ asked Sally, grabbing his hand before Greg could stand. 

‘I’m going out the front door. The Capitol needs to see me. They need to know where—‘ 

‘—No.’

Dimmock’s voice echoed up the corridor, as the other Victor headed towards them. ‘You can’t leave.’ 

‘Why not?’ asked Greg. ‘I’ll head out the front door, the Capitol will see me go, they’ll come after me and ignore Sally and the others.’ 

‘It’s not a good look if you seem to be running away.’ 

Greg let out a humourless laugh. ‘You know, Dimmock, I don’t really give two shits about a _good look._’ 

‘You have to,’ said Dimmock, his voice harsh. ‘That is the only thing protecting you. You’re popular in the Capitol, Greg. Very popular. Magnussen cares about that. He can’t be seen to kill you off. You, the darling of the Capitol. No, you’ll be captured. Magnussen’s going to try and turn you into a symbol for the Capitol, instead. The might, and wise, divine right of the Capitol.’ 

‘Then what do you think I should do?!’ snapped Greg, his voice sharp and bladed. 

He felt sharp, as if everything about him was a knife’s edge, gleaming in the moonlight. 

‘Stay here. Wait for the Capitol. Let Sally take John and the others out the back, and when the Capitol comes, let them take you into captivity. Holmes will scoop up your friends eventually.’

‘Eventually?!’ demanded Greg. ‘That’s not good enough. Do you know anything at all about the Resistance? Where it is, anything useful?’ 

Dimmock shook his head. ‘The only thing I can think of is that there have been rumblings in District Five. You gotta head that way.’ 

Greg took in a deep breath. ‘Sally, do you know where that is?’ 

Sally nodded. ‘West of here. We have to head West.’ 

Greg nodded. ‘Alright. You go, then. Take John with you.’ 

‘I won’t go!’ 

John’s small, high voice sounded from the other end of the corridor. Dimmock sighed, and turned, pushing past John. Sally did the same, gentling a hand over John’s hair, before walking back out into the lounge. 

‘You know what you have to do, Greg,’ was all Dimmock said, before he walked out. Greg didn’t reply, just turned back to his sword, lifting it out of the floor, and holding it up to the light. 

John’s hand tugged at his forearm again. 

‘I don’t want you to leave. No again.’ 

‘I’m not leaving,’ said Greg. ‘But you have to, little soldier.’

‘Why?’ asked John, his voice shaking. 

‘Because Mycroft is going to help you.’ 

‘And he can’t help you?’ 

‘No,’ said Greg, bending down. ‘He already has.’ 

‘How?’ 

‘He came back,’ said Greg. 

He had meant it as a comfort to John. But the truth of that rang through him all the same. Mycroft had come back. 

Perhaps not as promise. 

But he had come back. 

Mycroft wasn’t a god. That was why he hadn’t just come back for Greg right away. But he was a leader. A general. And he had a war to win. Greg was just a part of that. 

Greg didn’t know how large or small a part he was, but a part he knew, at least, he was. 

And the simple truth was that Mycroft had come back. For now, that simple truth was enough. It was enough that he wasn’t dead. For a moment, Greg could appreciate that. Appreciate the simple joy he could take in that simple idea. Mycroft wasn’t dead. 

Mycroft, in everything he was. The dangerous predator Greg had first seen in the training centre, on the roof back in the Capitol. The deadly player in the Games. The hunter. The soft side of him, at least as soft as Mycroft ever got, weaving magic with his words, and a single look from slate grey eyes enough to bring Greg to his knees. 

Those kisses Greg knew he could never get enough of, and now there was the real possibility he may even get again. 

The simple joy of that, the pure elation of that was enough. For this moment. 

Greg knew it was temporary, that soon enough the anger and pain and grief would all come rushing back. But for the moment, it wasn’t there. For a moment, it was tucked away, washed off by the cooling tide of simple, utter _happiness. _

And he knew he was smiling, just a little. 

It seemed to comfort John. But not enough. 

John shook his head. ‘You left me. For the Games,’ he accused. ‘You didn’t have a choice, I know. You had to save Alex. But… I don’t want us to be apart any more.’ 

‘Neither do I, Johnny,’ said Greg, shaking his head and reaching for John’s small hands. ‘But I have to. I have to do this, alright? I’ll be back with you before you know it.’ 

John shook his head, and opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, Sally swept back in. 

‘They’re coming,’ she gasped out. 

Greg bit back a curse. Standing, he grasped John’s hand, and led him out into the lounge, where the other kids had been rugged up, ready for the cold air. Maya and Molly were helping Sam get his shoes on, both with large packs of food and clothes on their backs. Sally had the same, her shoes on, her messy hair shoved into a woolen beanie. 

In her other hand, the large knife Greg had given her glinted. 

‘Dimmock said he saw outside that hovercraft had landed near the village. Peacekeepers are heading this way.’ 

Greg nodded, sharply. 

‘You need to go. Now.’ 

Sally nodded, and grabbed Alex’s hand. Maya grabbed Lottie’s hand, while Molly took Sam’s, and they both let Greg usher them to the back door. Meanwhile, he also grabbed a jacket and shoved it tightly around John’s shoulders, also shoving a cap onto his sandy blond locks in the meantime. John was reticent to leave, pushing and shoving at Greg.

Molly pulled open the back door, ushering the kids out first, before grabbing Greg in a brief hug. ‘Be safe.’ she whispered into his ear. 

Greg smiled, grimly. 

Maya and Sally followed suit, Sally staying only a moment longer to cast a dark look at Greg, before grabbing John’s hand. 

‘NO!’ cried John, grabbing Greg’s hand again. John sunk small nails into Greg’s hand, causing Greg to yelp in pain. 

‘John!’ he snapped, panicked, even as Sally pulled at John’s other hand. ‘You have to go!’ 

Greg tried to work at John’s other hand, tried to work the small fingers free, but it was no use. John clung tightly to him, small nails digging through Greg’s skin, even as he cried and wailed. 

‘John, enough, please!’ begged Sally. ‘You have to come with us. Greg’s gonna be fine!’ 

John was shaking his small head. ‘I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to,’ he repeated, over and over again. 

‘Greg, your friends have to go, now!’ said Dimmock, from behind him. ‘The Peacekeepers are coming up the hill.’ 

‘Sally, go!’ said Greg, making a final decision, a wager. 

‘But—‘ 

‘John, you have to go with Sally. Now.’

John shook his head, again, small sandy locks shivering, even as tears were pouring out of large blue eyes. ‘I don’t want to. Not again. Not again.’ 

Greg’s heart broke. 

Then, the lights of the Peacekeeper’s headlamps flashed through the windows. ‘Go!’ screamed Greg. ‘Now, you have to go!’ 

Sally turned, and ran out the door, her pack bouncing on her back, making a break for the woods at the bottom of the hill, where Molly, Maya, Sam, Alex and Lottie were already waiting. 

With a last look back, the six of them vanished beyond the tree line. 

Not a moment too soon. 

A sharp series of knocks came on the front door. 

‘They’re here,’ said Dimmock. ‘I’ll try and hold them off for a moment. You hide that foolish boy.’ 

Dimmock turned sharply, heading for the front door. 

Greg could feel panic building in his veins. He couldn’t do this. 

John was clinging to him fast, like a limpet to a rock. Now that Sally had let him go, he had wrapped both arms fast around Greg’s waist, and wasn’t letting go. 

The part that broke Greg’s heart the most was the tears, soaking into Greg’s shirt. 

Gripping John by his upper arms, Greg lifted him up. He hadn’t done this for the small boy since he was five, but now he was doing it. He rested John on his hip, a sudden sadness overtaking him as John immediately curled into him, resting his face in the crook of Greg’s neck. 

‘John,’ said Greg, his voice admonishing. ‘I don’t….’ 

Greg could suddenly feel the pinpricks of his own tears building behind his eyes. 

‘I’m so scared,’ mumbled John. ‘An’ I think… sometimes… when I wake up and you’re not there… that you’re back in that place on the tele screen. With all those people who are dying and those people who are trying to kill you. I don’t want that to happen again.’ 

‘John, it’s dangerous. Don’t you understand?’ 

John didn’t reply, just whimpered into Greg’s shirt. 

‘I’m not going back there. Not if I can help it,’ Greg murmured, right into John’s ear. 

Outside, he could hear Dimmock trying to placate the Peacekeepers, but he clearly wasn’t up to the task. The slur of his words betrayed a sort of drunkeness that wasn’t up to any sort of task, let alone this one. 

A sudden state of calm overtook Greg. 

What would Mycroft do? 

Dimmock had said the Capitol needed Greg alive. They needed him alive as a symbol. But that seemed tenuous at best. But it was leverage. If Greg did this right, he could keep himself, and John alive, at least as long as was needed until he could escape, and get back to Mycroft. 

He had to keep his mind on that — getting back to Mycroft. 

Silently, John clutched to his chest, Greg walked out of the back room, his sword in his other hand. 

In the lounge, four Peacekeepers stood, all in white. They wore white armour that seemed sort of like a beetle’s carapace, ridged and spiny. They stood in formation in front of Dimmock, one behind, two in the middle, and the tallest in the front, wearing a cape. 

This one looked up as Greg entered the room, a faceless, expressionless mask turning to look at him. Greg bit back a snarl, thankful that John, a dead weight in his arm, was silent.

Dimmock also looked back at him, doing a double-take when he saw John’s form curled into Greg’s side. He cast Greg a disapproving glare, fraught with pity, and frustration. Greg didn’t react. 

‘Gregory Lestrade,’ said the Peacekeeper, stepping forwards, and holding out a glowing device. ‘The President wishes to speak to you.’ 

Suddenly, the device flared to life, and a hologram screen floated up out of the Peacekeeper’s hand, coalescing into the President’s face. 

If Magnussen was bothered by the turn of events, it certainly didn’t seem that way. The man seemed practically composed, his hands folded neatly on an old-fashioned wooden desk. His eyes, narrow and shark-like, peered out of the blue-toned screen, boring into Greg’s soul. 

Greg nearly took a step back, and also almost expected that fish-smell to waft out over him, he remembered it so vividly. 

‘Gregory Lestrade,’ said the silky voice of the President of Panem, dark eyes flashing. ‘It is good to see you again.’ 

Greg bit back an insult, and forced himself to shrug, noncommittally. ‘And you, Mr President.’ 

‘Ah!’ said Magnussen, clapping his hands, a gleeful look spreading over his features. ‘There’s the spirit.’

‘What is this about, Mr President?’ asked Greg, his voice as guileless as he could make it. ‘I was just about to put my son to bed.’ 

John stirred, briefly, in his arms. 

‘Well,’ said Magnussen, tapping the side of his nose. ‘As you know, you are due for a Victory Tour, and today is the day we are to collect you for that process. You’ll be coming to the Capitol first, of course. For your Victor’s Ball. Then, of course, you shall proceed throughout the Districts.’ 

‘I know how the Victory Tour works,’ Greg replied, raising a brow, meanwhile tucking John closer in to his body. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to go without my son?’ 

Magnussen’s eyes widened, briefly, minutely. Greg would have thought he might have imagined it, were he not watching so very closely for just that reaction. Good. ‘Of course,’ said Magnussen, recovering quickly. ‘We would be happy to have your son along. He is so adored by the people of the Capitol. You demonstrated such devotion to him during your interval, after all.’ 

It is such a barbed comment, it gives Greg pause for a moment. 

The biting sense of unease begins once more. 

‘Surely you can give me one final night in my own home, in my bed before I have to leave?’ 

Magnussen sighed, falsely. ‘I’m afraid not, no. Terribly sorry, but you must leave right away.’ 

Greg bowed his head. He hadn’t expected anything less. 

Magnussen cleared his throat. ‘The head Peacekeeper will escort yourself and the Victor Dimmock to the train, where you’ll be taken to the Capitol this evening. The Victor’s ball is planned for five days’ time.’ 

Then, with a nod of his slimy head, Magnussen faded from the screen, and the disc returned to a plain blue colour. The Peacekeeper tucked it away, then his three companions stepped forwards and reached for John and Greg. 

Immediately, Greg stepped back, and Dimmock stepped between them. ‘We can walk for ourselves,’ snapped Dimmock, surprisingly coherent. 

The Peacekeepers did nothing more than acquiesce, though one did snatch Greg’s sword from his hand before Greg could do a thing, and tossed it away. 

Then, they were led out the door into the darkness of the night.


	3. Capture

Greg woke on a train, the sound of the tracks clacking beneath him, and a feeling of immediate deja vu overcoming him. The same ceiling, the same sound of the tracks, the same sensation of gut-wrenching dread, curling deep in his belly - it was all there. 

The only difference, and perhaps the largest one in terms of pure emotion, was the small body of his ward, tucked into his side. John was trembling, shaking as he clung to Greg in sleep. The feel of it was heartbreaking. 

Their journey to the train had been nothing but John clinging to him, terrified, damp tears mingling with he sweat on Greg’s shoulder. The two Peacekeepers had only allowed him to sit on the hard bench in the back of the transport, hell on his back. They stood there, menacing, the whole time, hard carapaces immoveable and blank masks with nothing but blackened glass visors staring at him. 

Greg recalled that each wore a sash, a sort of strange seal embossed onto the shimmering fabric. It almost looked a little like a shark that Greg had once seen in an old book somewhere. 

‘Greg?’ 

John’s soft voice brought Greg straight back out of his reverie, prompting Greg to run a gentle hand over John’s scalp. 

‘Are you okay, John?’ 

John didn’t reply, just peeked up at Greg, his blue eyes wide. 

‘What’s going to happen now?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Greg, truthfully. ‘I think we’re on our way to the Capitol.’ 

‘I don’t want to go to the Capitol.’ 

‘Neither do I, little soldier,’ shrugged Greg. ‘But we don’t have a choice.’ 

‘That’s not fair.’ 

‘No,’ said Greg, softly. ‘It’s not.’ 

There was a beat of silence. Greg stared up at the ceiling, trying not to let too much overwhelm him. There were too many feelings to process right now — far easier just to block it out and stare at the ceiling. Far easier just to not think about it. 

Mycroft being resurrected — feelings. 

John refusing to leave his side — feelings. 

It was all growing to be too much. Greg really hadn’t had to deal with that kind of feeling before. 

Perhaps when his dad had died. But mostly that was confusion, and grief. He had thought it had been an accident, but suddenly, he wasn’t so sure. Everything Dimmock had told him when he was training for the Arena about who his Dad had been raised such suspicions. 

Now… now. 

Now, there was such frustration that Greg had never felt before, boiling in his gut. He didn’t know how to move forwards.

‘Are you angry with me?’ asked John, his voice soft, as he sat up and looked down at Greg with wide blue eyes, holding his hands, nervously twisting up in his lap. 

Greg sat up, looking away from John, and staring across the room to where there was a window covered by a thin curtain. Behind it, he could see the flashing shadows of Panem passing by, as they hurtled towards the Capitol. 

‘Yes,’ said Greg, a moment later. ‘You should have gone with Sally. I needed you to go with Sally, John. If you were with her, you might be safe right now, do you understand that?!’ 

Greg realised, just after he had spoken, that his voice had raised until he was bellowing, but he couldn’t seem to stop. He couldn’t seem to control the words spilling from his mouth. 

‘God, John… Why didn’t you just listen to me, hmm?!’ 

Greg turned, and saw that John was looking down at his hands, his lips pursed tight, the baby fat in his cheeks wobbling. 

Letting out a sigh, Greg stood, hands on his hips. ‘John, I don’t understand why you did that. I don’t understand why you couldn’t have just gone with Sally, like at the Reaping when I asked you… do you remember what I asked you? I asked you to be brave, John. I asked you to be brave and go stand with her. Now, because of your decision, you have put _yourself_ in _danger_!’ 

John sniffed, large tears forming in the corners of his blue eyes, and pooling over his cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Greg, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ 

Greg bit his tongue, and gritted his teeth. He took in a great huff of air through his nose, and sighed it out again through his teeth, before stepping forwards and sitting down on the bed next to his ward. ‘John,’ he said, grabbing the younger boy’s attention, tapping him on the shoulder. 

‘I’m sorry, Greg, I didn’t mean it! I just…’ 

‘— you just?’ 

‘I… I just didn’t want you to leave me again,’ said John, his voice small and tremblingly weak.

Greg froze. 

The frustration and anger with John for not obeying him, not listening to him, putting himself in danger, it died away. It was replaced with understanding. 

‘John…’ sighed Greg, leaning over and wrapping his arms around the younger boy. He rubbed John comfortingly on the back, letting the younger boy sob into Greg’s shoulder, once again. 

Greg allowed this for a moment, before grasping John around the upper arms, and pushing him back, holding him firm so he could look into John’s eyes. ‘Listen to me, John.’ 

John nodded. 

‘I understand. I understand now… and know I didn’t leave you by choice, okay? I didn’t leave because I wanted to. I left because Alex needed me. He needed me just like you needed me when your Mum and Dad died, to help you. He would have died in the Arena. I didn’t, alright?’ 

‘I know,’ said John. ‘You came back.’ 

‘Exactly. I came back last time I left.’ 

‘But you might not come back this time,’ said John, shaking his head, his fingers twisting nervously in his lap. ‘You said, and Sally said, I heard her, she said that the Capitol was going to hurt you. That the President was going to keep you prisoner, and never let you go.’ 

‘When did she say this to you?’ 

‘She didn’t say it to me. She said it to you!’ 

Greg shook his head. He didn’t… he didn’t know how to answer that. He didn’t know what to tell John, couldn’t think of what to say that would comfort the smaller boy. 

It wasn’t fair. 

God, it just wasn’t fair in any way. John didn’t deserve this. No matter what decisions he had made to put himself in danger. John was just a _kid. _He just didn’t want Greg to leave again. 

And Greg couldn’t fault him for that. 

Suddenly, there was the rap of knuckles on the door. It jolted Greg, made him reach for John and push him behind Greg’s body, standing between the smaller boy and the door. 

‘Greg?’ Dimmock’s voice permeated through the door, making Greg relax a little, but not by much. 

‘Dimmock,’ said Greg, ‘What do you want?’ 

‘Come outside,’ said Dimmock. ‘The Peacekeepers want to talk to the both of us. They wanted to come and get you, but I made them wait. Is John awake?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Greg. 

‘Good. You need to come outside, or they’re gonna come in and drag you out.’ 

‘Fine,’ Greg bit out, turning and grabbing John’s hand, before opening the door. Outside the door, Dimmock was standing there, his face haggard with a lack of sleep, dark rings circling under his eyes. He did offer Greg a tight smile, when he opened the door, barely comforting. 

‘They want to see us in the dining car. Come on.’ 

‘Wait,’ snapped Greg. ‘How far from the Capitol are we?’ 

‘Not far enough,’ grunted Dimmock. ‘Hurry up.’ 

Greg didn’t ask anything else, just held John’s hand tightly in his own, following after Dimmock down the hall. 

The train they were on was slightly different from the one that had taken him the first time. For one, it was a bit more stripped back, he could see fewer luxuries. The carpet was gone, replaced with a hard floor of metal that rattled under his feet. The windows were bare of any decorative curtains or drapes, instead decked out with functional, bare-bones, practical pieces of fabric. 

Dimmock led them down a hall, past two more doors, then through a hissing, narrow tunnel between the cars.

The so-called dining car itself was also more stripped than Greg had seen on the previous train. Instead of the lovely crystal glasses that had greeted him the first time, black cups of some unknown substances were sat on the table, but still filled with water. The table itself, instead of being made of wood the way it had been the first time around, was now just done in simple white. The chairs were also metal and white contraptions that looked distinctly uncomfortable. 

On the far end of the car, behind the table, was a large screen that was playing some sort of news broadcast from the Capitol. The two news anchors were wearing brightly coloured clothing, the man with a great pile of pale blue curls on his head, the woman with pink waves that reached down below the table they were seated behind. Their mouths moved, soundlessly. 

Sitting at the table was Calypso. The sight of her was so sudden, Greg not having seen her the night before, he wondered how she’d gotten there. She wore her hair orange this time, the colour hurting his eyes. Her lips were covered with a sort of pinkish rouge, the same for her cheeks. She also had tiny butterflies adorning her cheekbones, matching the ones printed on her poofy dress. 

She smiled, tightly, when she saw Greg. 

A far more welcome sight, Clara was also seated at the table, her long, brown curls flowing loosely over her shoulders, and a hint of gold around her eyes. She smiled widely when she saw Greg, and pushed her seat back to come to him, reaching out her arms for him. 

‘Clara,’ said Greg, smiling widely, and also reaching for her, dropping John’s hand in the meantime. He folded the smaller woman into his embrace, tucking his face into her hair, breathing in her comforting scent. ‘It’s good to see you.’ 

‘Good to see you too, Greg,’ she replied, leaning back and looking at him. ‘I wish it were under better circumstances.’ 

Greg laughed, lowly, before turning and beckoning John forwards. 

‘Clara, this is John,’ he said, pulling John forwards to meet one of his only friends in the Capitol. John smiled shyly up at her, his eyes creasing at the corners, even while he still clung to Greg’s arm. 

‘Hello,’ said Clara, softly, reaching out a hand for John to shake. 

John took it, shaking it quickly before dropping it as if it were made of lava. Clara smiled. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’ 

Somehow, Clara’s comforting presence had calmed him. She had calmed him before the Games, after he got out of the Arena, before the Victor’s coronation, and her soft smile was enough for him, suddenly. 

Greg sighed, and just allowed the sight of the graceful Capitol stylist wash over him. She was like a beacon of calm to him, suddenly. 

Clara looked at him, her eyes kind. ‘Come on, Greg, sit down. Bring John with you. We’re going to have breakfast.’ 

True to her word, food had appeared on the table. It was nowhere near the fest Greg had received the first time around, but there was still some lovely fruits on the table, pastries and jugs of juice. 

Greg made for a seat to the left of Clara’s, across from Calypso, helping John up to sit between himself and Clara. Dimmock had already taken a seat next to Calypso, and was already busy pouring a golden substance into a glass already filled with orange juice. 

Quickly, Greg helped John pull some food from the buffet presented before them. 

‘So, here we are again,’ said Calypso, suddenly, a forced smile splitting her face. Greg spared her a glance, before spooning some eggs onto John’s plate. 

Dimmock grunted. 

‘What happens now, then?’ asked Greg, pouring a glass of apple juice for himself and John. Calypso tittered, while Clara sighed, and picked away at the bacon on her plate. 

‘We don’t know,’ said Clara. ‘Not really. We know that you’re going to the Capitol. That the Victor’s Ball will be at the end of the week. You’ll need to be prepped for that. Aside from that, there are series of functions that have been planned. You’re due to appear on Flickerman’s show this evening, then tomorrow you are to go to watch another Capitol blood-sport.’ 

‘Oh!’ Calypso tittered, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘A Gladiator battle is to be held in your honour, Greg. It is simply fabulous. And the Ball… oh, it is all just so exciting!’ 

Greg didn’t respond. Beside him, John was picking at his food half-heartedly. ‘John, you’re gonna have to eat,’ said Greg, encouraging the younger boy to at least nibble at his food, not just push it around his plate.

‘Not hungry,’ mumbled John, his voice trembling. 

‘Too bad,’ said Greg, not unkindly. ‘Eat while you have the chance.’ 

There was silence. Dimmock was shovelling food into his mouth between great gulps of his spiked juice. Calypso was picking delicately at her food with dainty fingers. Greg himself could understand John’s predicament. He too had no appetite to eat while Sally was probably starving with nothing but canned foods to eat. 

Despite this, however, he forced himself to swallow down eggs just as he had asked John to do, pushing down a pastry over his growing nausea. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Clara looking at him, concerned. 

‘Greg,’ she said, softly, catching his attention. 

Greg looked up at her, just as she tipped her head towards the door in aquiet gesture. Greg nodded, in response, getting to his feet, and bending down next to John. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ To Dimmock, he nodded at John. ‘Watch him.’ 

Dimmock did nothing more than incline his head, slightly, before turning back to his food. 

Clara breezed past him, Greg following after her. They ducked back through the tunnel, shutting the door to the dining car behind them. Clara opened up the first door, leading to a small but well-appointed sit-ing area, with firm white lounges and a rug on the floor. A large window let in natural light, the view outside swishing past with nothing more than a quiet few clacks on the tracks. 

‘Sit down, Greg,’ said Clara, gesturing to one of the seats, while she took the other. Greg practically collapsed into the seat, rubbing a hand over his eyes. When he looked back up, Clara was smiling at him, kindly, the corners of her dark eyes creasing. ‘Are you okay?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Greg, then immediately regretting it. ‘No. I don’t know.’ 

Clara sighed. ‘I understand. Alright, let’s try this one at a time, why don’t we?’ 

‘Okay,’ Greg murmured, weakly. 

‘Mycroft’s alive. How do we feel about that?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Greg, fully truthfully. ‘Frustrated. Tired. Angry. Sad.’ 

‘That’s a lot of things,’ said Clara. ‘But maybe… what was your first reaction when he popped up on the screen?’ 

‘I…. uhh…’ Greg stumbled, ever so eloquently. 

‘I can tell you mine, would that help?’ Without waiting for a response, she continued; ‘I felt surprise, of course. Then, elation. I was so happy for you, Greg. So happy that he was back. It was just… the worst thing that I have ever seen, trying to take you away from him. When you came out of the Arena…’ she sighed, and shook her head. ‘You were utterly devastated. I care about you, Greg. It’s no secret. Seeing that… well, it broke my heart. So now that he’s back… now you can have him back, Greg… it’s a cause for celebration, no matter what it means for the future.’ 

Greg smiled, biting back a laugh. He allowed himself to feel that, just for a moment. Just that utter elation, that feeling that… Mycroft was back. Mycroft, like the magician that he was, had risen from the grave, and Greg didn’t need to grieve him anymore. 

The feeling of being held in Mycroft’s arms, that wasn’t something far off, a far off dream, a memory that he could recall in the hazy mornings. It was something real now, something tangible that he could reach out and touch, if only he tried just hard enough. 

That thought was enough to send Greg reeling. 

He didn’t think he’d have it again. Talking to Sally what felt like months ago, but he knew was just yesterday — he had simply had to state in as few words as he could that was gone from him. But now… now the future seemed to stretch out in front of him, all leading to that moment where he could feel Mycroft’s touch on his skin again, the way the other former Tribute made him feel…

Greg let out a soft sigh, from behind his smile. 

‘There we go,’ smiled Clara, her eyes creasing. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? There aren’t many people who can say the one they care for greatly comes back from the dead. Not anyone who isn’t crazy, anyway.’ 

Greg let out a low laugh at that. ‘I guess you’re right. But…’ 

‘… but?’ 

‘I don’t know. I’m also… angry. I’m angry he let me believe for so long he was dead!’ Greg felt his brows come down over his face, felt his smile fall, his stomach flip. ‘I… I hurt, so much. It hurt. I told Sally… my friend from the district, Sally… I told her that there was a hole right through my chest because that was what it felt like. It honestly felt like he had died and took a huge part of me with him and that I had slowly started to put myself back together. That I had taken all those broken bits of puzzle and placed them all in a row again.’ 

‘I understand that, as well, Greg,’ said Clara. ‘I do. You had lost him, and he had left you for months and months. He had let you grieve, let you be in pain, but worse than that, he had let you start to heal. And it’s frustrating to you because—‘ 

‘— Because he’s started a _war!_ He’s started a war, Clara, a war with the Capitol.’ Greg shook his head. ‘It’s hard for me. When we were in the Arena, he told me all these things about how he was going to rebuild the world. About how he was going to make everything better. Make everything good, and fair, give everyone justice for everything the Capitol’s done to us. And I believed him.

‘But now, it’s just harder. He left me to months of pain, and he let me begin to patch over the hole he cut right through me, and now he’s back. He’s making the same promises he once did, and I’m scared, Clara. I’m scared that he’s going to die again. He’s going to die for real. And I can’t… I don’t think I can handle that.’ 

Clara was silent, appraising. 

‘Can I ask you a question?’ she murmured, after a beat of silence. Greg huffed out a low laugh. 

‘Course,’ he replied. ‘Ask away. I’m an open book.’ 

Clara smiled. ‘Do you think he can win? In a rebellion, I mean?’ 

Greg sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I don’t know, Clara. I just don’t. I think he can, if I’m honest. I think he can win a war, because that is who he is. It’s… amazing. It’s scary, don’t get me wrong… but it’s also amazing. He’s amazing. What matters, though, is everyone else. Who’s going to get hurt?’ 

Clara shrugged. ‘Perhaps,’ she murmured, ‘That’s just the price of war. It’s about what you think is best, Greg. Yes, if there is a war, people are going to die. Such is the nature of conflict. But if things stay the way they are… I don’t know. I think more may die under the Capitol’s cruelty.’ 

‘You’re right,’ said Greg. ‘I know. John’s mum and dad both died because of the Capitol. So many other people, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, so many other people have been killed by the Capitol. I suppose all we can do is try.’

Clara bowed her head. 

***

‘Molly? Maya?’ Sally tapped both of the other girls on their shoulders, waking them from where they were slumbering under the cover of the roots of a large tree. She had no idea where they were, but by the position of the sun she guessed it was around mid-morning. 

There were bound to be people looking for them by now — they had to get going. 

‘What is it?’ asked Molly, blearily, rubbing her eyes before looking around. The children were also beginning to stir, Alex having already sat up and pulled his coat from the ground. 

‘We need to get moving,’ urged Sally, hoisting her bag given to her by Greg onto her back. ‘They’re probably already looking for us. We need to get moving before they can track us down.’ 

‘Aren’t we far enough already?’ asked Lottie, her voice whining. ‘We walked for _ages.’_

‘It’s not far enough,’ said Sally. ‘We need to get as far away as we can, or else we’ll be caught by the bad people.’ 

‘Where are we going?’ asked Alex. Sally looked at Maya for help. 

The other girl, her beautiful hair falling in front of her eyes, jerked at Sally’s look. ‘We’re going to find some people who can help us, Alex,’ said Maya. 

‘Where are they?’ 

‘We don’t know,’ replied Sally. ‘We just need to keep walking. The people who can help us will find us. Alex, you need to stop asking questions. We have to get moving.’ 

‘My feet hurt,’ groaned Sam, leaning past where Molly was kneeling putting his small shoes on. 

‘I know,’ murmured Molly, to him. Sally walked past Maya to crouch next to Molly. ‘But we gotta keep going.’ 

‘What about Greg?’ asked Alex, blinking at his elder sister. Sally looked over her shoulder at him. ‘Where is he?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ snapped Sally. ‘But when we find the people who can help us, we can ask them to help Greg, as well.’ 

‘What if they don’t want to help Greg?’

‘He will,’ replied Sally, getting to her feet, and marching over to grab Alex’s hand. ‘He has to.’ 

With that, she began off into the forest, Molly and Maya following behind her. The three children, tired, stumbled over the fallen logs and brambles, they climbed past massive trees. 

‘Sal,’ said Maya, grabbing Sally’s attention. She looked over her shoulder at her partner, offering a tight smile to the pale-haired girl. ‘Do you have a plan?’ 

‘No,’ murmured Sally, as quietly as she could. ‘But… Greg’s told me a lot about Mycroft. He’s told me that he told Mycroft about us, in the Arena. Mycroft must know, by now, that Greg’s with them. He must know, and he must know that we’re not. So we just need to keep going until that Career can find us.’ 

‘How do you know he’s not just going to try and break Greg out first?’ asked Maya. 

Sally smiled, grimly. ‘We don’t.’ 

Maya fell silent. 

They were all silent, as they worked through the forest. It was hard work, and Sally had no idea how far they’d walked, only that they were still walking and still hadn’t reached anything more than a couple of old, worn down fences a few miles back. The children had mostly stopped complaining, as they hadn’t received anything from the others in return. 

Sally looked around. 

Despite the situation they were in, she couldn’t deny that it was beautiful out here. She had never really been this far out from the District, and this far out, the woods were untouched. Trees stretched high into the sky, the canopy above a deep green, filtering through pale light from the blue sky above. 

Far removed from the polluted air of the District, the air out here was clean and pure. She could breathe it in through her lungs deeply, warming her inside and calming her. 

Sally suddenly realised Maya was beside her, folding her small hand into her own, and smiling calmly up at her. 

‘It’s beautiful out here,’ Maya commented, quietly. Sally nodded.

‘It is.’ 

Maya paused in her walking for a moment, tucking her chin onto Sally’s shoulder. Sally smiled at her, allowing Molly and the three kids to walk a little way ahead. Tempers had seemed to cool off, the other children finally seeming to enjoy themselves a little more. Alex and Lottie were playing calmly together, chasing after one another through the underbrush. Sam was playing with sticks, throwing them ahead then running to fetch them, not fleeing far from Molly’s side.

Molly herself was happily looking around the forest, a small smile on her face. 

‘Are you okay?’ asked Maya, her eyes creasing at the corners. 

‘I’m more relaxed than I thought I’d be,’ replied Sally, stroking a hand over Maya’s. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘What for?’ 

‘For taking you away from the District. I should’ve given you a choice whether you wanted to come or not, Maya.’

Maya let out a low sigh. ‘I know. You panicked. You were trying to keep the others safe. Molly, Lottie, Alex and Sam. You had to get them out.’ 

‘You didn’t need to leave, Maya,’ said Sally. ‘You could’ve stayed in the District. You’re not like us, your father’s a banker. You would’ve been safe with him.’ 

‘I don’t want to stay in the District,’ replied Maya, stepping back from Sally and looking at her, her eyes calm. ‘I didn’t want to stay there, sit there and worry about what was happening to you and Greg and everyone else. I _love _you, Sally. I want to marry you, one day. I can’t do that if I’m stuck in the District.’ 

Sally sniffed, tears prickling the backs of her eyes. ‘I don’t know if I can keep you safe.’ 

‘I never asked you to,’ Maya murmured, stroking a hand along Sally’s shoulder. Sally shook her head, she didn’t know how to respond. 

Gently, Maya leaned up, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. It was a chaste, dry thing, certainly nothing like other kisses they’d shared in the past. But it was comforting. 

‘Come on,’ said Maya. ‘We need to keep up with the others.’ 

Sally nodded, and took her hand, briefly squeezing it and offering a smile, before following after the three children. Molly, up ahead, paused to wait for them, tucking her brown hair behind her ear. 

‘Sam says he’s hungry,’ said Molly, when Sally caught up with her. Sally inclined her head. 

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We’ve been walking for a couple hours now, Molls. We should take a break.’ 

Lottie walked up then, shaking brown leaves out of her hair. ‘I’m hungry too, Sally. Can we eat?’ 

Sally let out a laugh. ‘Alright,’ she said, slinging the bag that Greg had given her off her back. Placing it down between them, they all sat in a rough circle as she dug food out of the bag. 

‘How far do you reckon we’ve walked?’ asked Lottie, biting into a piece of bread that Sally had handed her. 

‘I think we’ve walked all the way to District Twelve!’ said Sam, suddenly, his eyes bright. ‘We’ve walked so far!’ 

Sally laughed, and reached over to ruffle Sam’s hair. ‘Maybe,’ she replied. ‘But I think we’re going to have to walk for a lot longer to make it all the way to District Twelve. District Twelve’s very far away, you know.’ 

‘Have you ever met anyone from District Twelve?’ asked Molly, her inquisitive eyes looking at Sally. 

‘No,’ replied Sally. ‘I haven’t heard very nice things, though. I’ve heard that they’re all miners, and that they have to spend every day in a coal mine, digging and digging and digging until they’re old.’ 

‘That’s horrible,’ sighed Lottie. ‘I s’pose we’re lucky.’ 

‘We are,’ said Sally. 

‘I don’t know,’ piped up Maya. ‘My dad once had a baker from District Twelve visiting. He was investing in the man’s bakery. But you’re right. He was horribly thin, and he had all this black soot that he left everywhere. He didn’t stay for long, either.’ 

Sally didn’t say anything, just handed around a small skin of water for everyone to take a couple of sips from. They continued with the meal, the children seemingly becoming more energetic with each bite of the food that they took. Sam was bouncing around after having eaten half a pastry, and Alex had the juice of some fruit stuck around his mouth. 

Suddenly, Sally heard a sound. It was far off, but the humming of hovercraft was something she’d heard before. 

It brought her right back to the day their parents had died, the day that the hovercraft had drifted overhead, dropping peacekeepers out in their dozens. 

‘Get up!’ she snapped to everyone, suddenly, getting to her feet herself and speedily grasping everything within her reach and cramming it back into the bag. Molly followed suit, pulling her own bag onto her back. 

‘What is it?’ asked Maya, quickly, her voice urgent. 

‘Hovercraft from the Capitol. They might’ve noticed we’re missing, they might be looking for us.’ 

Maya didn’t reply, just getting to her feet as well and helping Alex to put his coat back on. The children had fallen entirely silent, looking up at her with wide, worried eyes. 

Sally grasped Lottie’s hand, and led them back off into the forest. They had to move faster now, even as she could hear the sound of the hovercraft behind them. It was gaining on them, sweeping back and forth as if searching the forest floor. 

‘Hurry up,’ Sally hissed at Lottie, who immediately began to move faster, skipping with Sally between the tree trunks and over the dangerous, low brambles. Up ahead, Maya and Alex were also jumping through, Maya helping Alex over where she could. 

They were moving faster now than they had been, Sally’s bag bouncing on her back. Sally could hear the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears, and suddenly she could understand what it had been like for the Tributes in the Games, running for their lives. 

It was hard to think of the injustice of it while they were running. 

Breaths burning in her lungs, her legs feeling like lead weights as she forced herself to keep raising them and moving at a gentle jog through the forest. The kids, clearly picking up on their panic, were also moving faster. Sam was stumbling through the brush on stubby feet, tears forming in his eyes. 

Sally swooped down, and grasped Sam, picking him up and lifting him over the brush. The added weight of the younger boy made her core burn, even as both Maya and Molly looked at her gratefully. 

It didn’t matter. The hovercraft was creeping over them, closer and closer, the humming becoming thunderously loud. Sally glanced over her shoulder, and saw that the shadow of it was sweeping closer, low over the forest canopy. 

Suddenly, up ahead, there was a thump, and a scream.

‘Lottie!’ called Sally, immediately recognising that sound. 

‘Sally!’ Charlotte called back. Sally swept forwards, reaching for her, and setting Sam down. Maya had caught up, and Molly was standing guard, watching the hovercraft draw nearer. 

Sally’s heart was beating in her ears, her pulse pounding and her blood rushing, even as she leant over Charlotte. ‘What’s wrong?’ 

‘I stepped funny,’ mumbled Charlotte. ‘My ankle hurts.’

Tears were bubbling up from the corners of her eyes, a pitiful sight. Sally sighed, and leaned down, grasping Charlotte’s ankle as gently as she could. It was already beginning to swell up, red forming around the small bones and tendons. 

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Maya, urgently. ‘It’s right on top of us!’ 

The humming was indeed thunderous, and Sally leant her head back, trying to stay calm and think of a plan. 

‘Maya, Molly, take Sam and Alex. Run ahead, I’ll stay here with Charlotte.’ 

‘The hovercraft is going to get you!’ said Maya. 

‘I know!’ snapped Sally. 

‘Go,’ said Charlotte, suddenly. ‘Leave me here.’ 

‘Out of the question,’ replied Sally, immediately. ‘You have to go, Maya. Now.’

‘No, I’m not going,’ she said, shaking her head, and grabbing Sally’s hand. ‘I’m staying with you.’ 

‘We’re not leaving either,’ said Molly, grabbing Sam’s hand. 

‘You’re being stupid!’ insisted Sally. ‘You need to go now. Better only Charlotte and I then all six of us.’ 

‘No,’ repeated Molly. ‘All of us, or none of us.’

Sally could feel the bloom of frustration in her chest. She opened her mouth to speak again, to insist that Molly and Maya leave, but it was too late. 

The hovercraft was right on top of them, the humming loud and almost unbearable at this point. It hurt her ears, the way it was thrumming in the air, almost unbearable. 

Sally looked up, watching as the hovercraft began to circle, getting lower in the trees, even as a beam of light dropped through the canopy and surrounded them in its light. 

Beneath her hands, she could feel Charlotte shaking in fear, even as Alex and Sam all gathered around, Molly and Maya huddling in close to form a loose circle around the three younger children, looking up into the canopy. 

Standing, Sally joined them, reaching out for Maya’s hand and grasping it tightly, even as a dark port opened in the bottom of the hovercraft. 

Thin ropes descended from the port, then, to her surprise, instead of peacekeepers dropping out, people in black clothing instead fell out. The costumes they wore were similar in design to those of the Peacekeepers, but they were completely pitch black. They had small guns holstered at their hips, their masks completely featureless and blank. 

They fell to the dirt of the forest floor, gathering close in a loose circle surrounding their small group. 

‘Stay back!’ said Sally, brandishing the knife in front of herself, pointing directly at the nearest black Peacekeeper. 

The black Peacekeeper froze, hands away from the gun in the holster. 

‘Stay back!’ she repeated. ‘Don’t come any closer!’ 

The Peacekeeper stepped forwards, again, out of the circle they had formed, then closer still until he was about arm’s distance from Sally. He or she towered over Sally, tall and imposing in figure. This one seemed to be more superior than the others, wearing metal plates on the shoulders with an indistinct symbol stamped in that Sally couldn’t quite make out. 

‘What is your name?’ asked a voice from inside the mask, emanating out through some sort of unseen hole. The voice was surprisingly gentle, yet gravelly, refined in the way it formed vowels and rolled over consonants. 

It was a voice that Sally had heard before, but she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t be sure. Not with the Capitol running around playing tricks on their eyes and their minds and their beliefs. This was a Games of a different kind. 

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, instead of answering the black Peacekeeper’s question. ‘What do you want?’ 

The black Peacekeeper raised his hands, and Sally took a slight step back, warily flashing the knife forwards again. But the Peacekeeper didn’t go for a punch, or a weapon of any kind. Instead, he seemed to fumble almost with the back of his helmet. It hissed pneumatically, before sliding from the man’s face gently to reveal high cheekbones, reddish brown hair and slate grey eyes that pinned Sally in place. 

Mycroft Holmes was even more imposing in person than he had been through the filter of the screen during the Games, his lips pursed into a line, and his eyes narrow and truly appraising. They flashed grey like the roiling ocean during a storm, sitting like jewels over high cheekbones and a handsome face. 

‘Sally, isn’t it?’ Mycroft guessed, tipping his head to the side. 

Sally felt the sudden relief of seeing a man she had become strangely familiar with through Greg’s eyes wash over her, and she leaned into that sensation, allowing her muscles to relax, and the sight of the former District One Career fill her. 

They were safe.


	4. Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note, this is a time-skip back to before Mycroft's resurrection. 
> 
> Enjoy :)
> 
> TH

‘Mycroft?’ Mike’s soft voice prompted Mycroft to look up from the book he was reading, towards where the rotund Capitol man was standing at the entrance to his hospital room. Mycroft offered Mike a tight smile. 

Stamford took that as permission to enter the room, stepping over to the side of Mycroft’s bed and looking at him carefully. ‘How are you feeling?’ 

‘Fine,’ replied Mycroft, ‘My wound has almost healed entirely. I believe I shall be alright to move ahead with the plans shortly.’ 

‘The whole world thinks you’re dead,’ said Mike, pursing his lips. ‘I just…. well…’ 

‘What is it?’ asked Mycroft, cocking his head to one side and narrowing his eyes at Mike. Stamford seemed nervous, shifting from foot to foot. Mycroft could see that beads of sweat were forming on the other man’s forehead, and that he seemed to have something in his pocket, a rectangular device of some sort that was glowing slightly through the fabric of his slacks. 

‘I wasn’t really prepared for this,’ said Stamford. 

Mycroft huffed out a chuckle. ‘Neither was I,’ he replied. ‘I had to change my plans at the last moment, Stamford. This was the best I could do in the time I was given.’ 

‘I know,’ said Stamford. ‘But I was prepared for you to win. Not for your friend.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘It was strange to me, I suppose.’ 

‘In what way?’ asked Mycroft, suddenly wary of where Stamford was going with this line of questioning. Stamford had, from the start, expressed his doubts and concerns about the entire thing, stating that it just didn’t give Mycroft enough weight if he hadn’t won the Games. ‘I know,’ said Mycroft, deciding to give voice to his thoughts, ‘I know that you were expecting me to win. But as you know I found that I could not.

‘Gregory was not something I expected. You know as well as I do…’ 

‘I know that you like him,’ said Stamford, immediately cutting Mycroft off. ‘I know you… well, I have never seen you like that before, Mycroft. I think even Sherlock was taken aback by the level of care you displayed towards him. Mycroft, you were saving him from the start, and—‘ 

‘—I don’t understand what the purpose of this is, Stamford,’ snapped Mycroft, suddenly, raising a hand to halt Stamford’s babbling. 

Mike sighed, and reached into his pocket. He was sweating all the more, now, his face tight and worried. 

The former Game-maker pulled from his pocket a rectangular device with a small display that was lit up in a pale blue. ‘Here,’ said Stamford, thrusting it out towards Mycroft. 

Mycroft took it, looking down at the device. It was clearly Stamford’s own personal one, a series of icons popping up including a browser of some sort, amongst others. ‘What is it that you want me to do with this, Stamford?’ asked Mycroft, unwilling to admit he was confused. 

Again, Stamford sighed. ‘Just… open the video there.’ 

Mycroft did as Stamford asked, seeing that the application brought up a video that had been paused. It was a vision of the clock tower at the end of the Games, the bright light of the sunrise lighting up the entire place in a vision of pale orange and soft pinks, the soft light of dawn so very far removed from the sight atop the clock tower. 

‘Play it,’ prompted Stamford, puncturing the trance Mycroft had gone into, just looking at the sight of the two of them atop the tower, Moriarty’s dead body beneath them. 

He hadn’t, of course, noticed at the time, but he could see the blood that liberally splattered the both of them, the glint of various weapons around them, the glint of his own sword on his back. 

Shaking himself, Mycroft pressed the small playback button in the corner of the screen, allowing it to play out. 

For once, the horrid commentators were entirely silent, as the hidden cameras that Mycroft had known at the time were there, but for a moment had just allowed himself to forget. 

They swept over the entwined figures of himself and Gregory, silver hair glinting in the light. The sight of Gregory’s face, even though it had been just two weeks since the last time he had seen it, entranced him. The sight was enough to enrapture him, tracing his eyes over those endlessly familiar curves and edges, deep brown eyes that he could gaze into. The openness of his expression, eternally trusting in Mycroft himself. 

Mycroft couldn’t bear to listen to himself and Gregory speaking, sliding the volume down until it was turned off. The words he had said to Gregory kept repeating themselves in his own head enough — he didn’t need to hear them aloud once more. The sudden hurt, and realisation in Gregory’s eyes as Mycroft plunged the dagger into his own chest. 

As that happened, a sudden jolt of phantom pain shot through his chest, right where the wound had finally begun to patch over. 

Then, the collapse. The fall to the dirt, and the final words. The final plea for his silver-haired lover not to cry that fell on deaf ears. 

There. 

That was where his eyes closed. Where he began to lose consciousness from internal bleeding and blood loss. The final cannon must have gone, even as Gregory collapsed over his body as if his strings had been cut. 

Mycroft maintained a stony facade as much as he could, while Stamford was still standing there. He watched as Gregory clung to his own lifeless body, sobbing and crying out and all Mycroft wanted to do was reach through the screen and comfort him, hold him, promise him the world for that was everything he deserved and more.

The kindest of men. 

Mycroft couldn’t watch any longer. 

He paused the video, and turned to look at Stamford, accusation in his voice. ‘Why did you show me that, Stamford? What purpose did it serve to you?’ 

‘No!’ said Stamford, horrified, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. ‘No, not like that. I swear. I just…’ 

‘… you just? Just what, Stamford? What is the point you are trying to make? Tell me!’ 

‘Mycroft,’ said Stamford. ‘You have to believe me. I’m showing you that for your own good.’ 

‘For my own good? What good is that more than showing me what I have done as if I don’t already know it?!’ 

Disgusted, Mycroft rolled off the bed, getting to his feet and glaring at Stamford across the bed. His chest ached with phantom pain, even as he tried to maintain a stony face, pinching his lips together to keep from growling. 

He mustn’t get angry. 

‘Mycroft, listen,’ said Stamford. ‘It broke my goddamn heart having to watch that. I had to watch them rip that poor boy away from your dead body and it killed me.’ 

‘Exactly!’ said Mycroft, raising a finger. ‘Exactly, don’t you see? That is the point! This is unfair. This system is unfair. You think Gregory is the first to weep over a dead body that the Capitol put there?’ 

‘But they didn’t put it there!’ snapped Stamford, ‘You did! You drove a knife into your own chest!’ 

‘It was necessary, Stamford.’ 

‘Necessary?!’ 

‘Yes.’ 

Mycroft sighed, and walked around the bed to Stamford’s side, gesturing for the rotund Game-maker to take a seat on the bed. ‘This is how it had to be. How else could it have gone? Now that I am “dead” so to speak, the Capitol does not know that I am in fact still alive.’ 

‘It’s cruel,’ said Mike. ‘It’s cruel to him.’ 

Mycroft let out another sigh, and took a seat next to Stamford on the bed. ‘I know that. You think it does not bother me? That he is suffering in such a way? I would give anything to be by his side once more, you must know that. But to be by his side I must first do this.’ 

‘He’ll be dragged in eventually, you know that, don’t you?’ asked Stamford, frowning. 

‘I hope not for a very long time,’ replied Mycroft, shaking his head. ‘He does not deserve that. Gregory… Gregory is the very best of men.’ 

There was a moment of silence. 

‘He’s a symbol. You know that, I know that. You must know what he represents, Mycroft.’ 

‘Of course,’ said Mycroft, nodding. ‘The Silver Knight. It is quite the symbol. He is far more a symbol than I will ever be. He is someone that other people deeply want to be. His friends, his family, they all say this of him. He is morality personified, certainly he has far more empathy than perhaps I ever did.’ 

Stamford snorted. ‘Say that again.’ 

Mycroft frowned. ‘But if my plans come to fruition, which they no doubt will, then this shall be the beginning of something.’ 

‘You know who he is, don’t you?’ asked Stamford, turning to look at Mycroft. ‘You know who’s _son _he is.’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Mycroft. ‘I knew the moment I saw him. The silver hair… it is extraordinarily distinctive.’ 

‘Culverton,’ said Stamford, a moment later. ‘Culverton wants to use this to his advantage. He already is. I shouldn’t even be telling you this… but you of all people have a right to know.’ 

‘Culverton has a great many plans,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘Some of them I am perhaps inclined to go along with. Others… perhaps not.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘I have plans myself, Stamford. I am not a pawn.’ 

‘I never thought you were,’ said Stamford, snorting again. 

‘We must build a better future. For everyone, not just for _Culverton Smith. _One must remember that, yet at the same time, remember that a house divided cannot stand.’ 

‘I think you’re a little late to the party, Mycroft,’ Stamford muttered. ‘You chose not to win the Hunger Games. You aren’t as beloved by the Capitol as the Silver Knight. You don’t hold as much leverage as you were supposed to. I don’t know how this is going to go for you. I don’t.’ 

‘I do,’ replied Mycroft. ‘I have already begun.’ 

***

It only was a few days later when Mycroft finally had enough energy to leave the one room he had been in for weeks, now, along with the short corridor outside. Outside the door, an old friend was waiting to greet him. 

‘Mycroft,’ said Anthea, smiling warmly, her long, black hair done neatly up in a coil around her head, the corners of her eyes creasing at the sight of him. ‘It’s good to see you.’ 

‘Anthea, I’m glad to see you,’ murmured Mycroft, reaching for his old friend and wrapping her up in his arms. ‘Why didn’t you come to see me?’ 

‘I couldn’t,’ she sighed, stepping back and looking at him. ‘Culverton wouldn’t let me. He said there were more important things I had to accomplish.’ 

Mycroft frowned. ‘We must speak,’ he said. ‘Do you know somewhere we might not be overheard?’ 

‘Sure,’ nodded Anthea. ‘I have to show you your new quarters anyway.’ 

‘Have they been de-bugged?’ 

‘I ensured it myself,’ she replied, nodding her head. ‘It wasn’t easy, but I made your brother help as well.’ 

‘Where is Sherlock?’ 

‘He should be waiting for us, if he listened to me properly.’ Mycroft snorted. 

‘The day Sherlock listens to a simple order is the day I jump from a bridge.’ Anthea grinned and snorted herself.

Anthea led him along a long hallway, and then out into a round, glass passage that looked out over a large, deep, cylindrical, cavernous space. 

‘An old missile silo, isn’t it?’ asked Mycroft, looking out over the space. He had only seen images and maps that had been provided to him in the hospital, along with the personnel numbers and resources at their disposal. Anthea inclined her head. 

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Would you like the full history?’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Mycroft. Anthea nodded, again, and held out a slim data pad to him. 

‘This one’s yours. You weren’t allowed it in the medical bay.’ 

‘Culverton’s orders?’ 

‘Of course,’ she replied, sighing. 

Turning, she led him off down another hallway, towards where Mycroft could recall from memory was where the living quarters for other high-ranking members of the Resistance were located. The location of Culverton’s own quarters hadn’t been revealed to him.

Anthea led him through a set of pneumatic doors, gesturing for him to go first into the rooms. 

They were well appointed, if a little sparse. On the far side were three doors, behind which Mycroft knew were two bedrooms, and a small bathroom. Out in this space were a set of simple lounge chairs, as well as a small table and set of chairs. A large screen occupied the left wall, looking out over the room. 

‘Culverton has said you can personalise it how you like.’ 

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Mycroft, looking at her. ‘Across the hall, I assume?’ 

‘Of course,’ she replied, again inclining her head. ‘The other room here is for Sherlock. I don’t know where he’s gone off to. He enjoys exploring the rest of the base. Down on the lower levels, especially, where the warehouses have been dug out.’ 

Mycroft waved away any further explanation, walking over to the lounges and taking a seat, trying not to let the pain oft he wound show on his face. Even that small walk had hurt, and he knew he wasn’t fully healed. 

The wound was still quite red, there was still stitches in place, and the ache never really faded. But for now, it would have to do. There was work to be done. 

‘Sit, Anthea,’ said Mycroft, gesturing for her to take a seat across from him. She obeyed, folding her hands neatly in her lap. ‘Well?’ 

Anthea inclined her head, and pulled a device from her pocket, which she began to flick through quickly, her eyes flashing over the screen. ‘District Five is stirring, Mycroft. I have had word from our people on the inside there that people are unhappy with the status quo. District Ten, as well. The mother of the girl who was killed in the Arena from District Ten killed herself after her daughter did.’ 

‘Suzie Gates’ mother,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘She’s dead?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Anthea. ‘People aren’t happy, Mycroft. For the first time in a long time, people aren’t happy. We have momentum, we just need to keep feeding the fire.’ 

‘Indeed,’ Mycroft replied. ‘But, I think, for now it will take time. For now, we must plan. We must know what we want to accomplish before we can accomplish it.’ 

‘Your first issue?’ 

‘Culverton,’ replied Mycroft. ‘I must do something that proves once and for all that I am here. That I am to lead. That the world we build shall be fair for all, not just for him.’ 

‘I see,’ said Anthea. ‘He is posing a problem. However, are you certain that he should be your first target? Surely you should be spending time finding tactics to liberate the Districts, first?’ 

‘No,’ he replied, simply. ‘Anthea, it cannot be allowed to stand. Culverton poses a serious risk. You know the kind of man that he is.’ 

‘I do,’ sighed Anthea. ‘You are right.’ 

‘There are many chess pieces at the moment. There are too many Queens in play. We must eliminate some to ensure the survival of the rest.’ 

‘Culverton can’t be eliminated.’ 

‘I’m not going to,’ said Mycroft, simply. ‘I am just going to remind him who he is, and I will show him who _I _am.’ 

***

There was a soft thud and hiss, as the door to their quarters opened. Mycroft looked up from the small, pale light he’d had lit on the far side of the room, over the data pad he was working on, to see through the darkness. The door opened to pitch black, and a small figure darted through, barely outlined by the light of his lamp across the room. 

‘Sherlock,’ murmured Mycroft, greeting his brother quietly. Sherlock didn’t seem surprised to see him. 

‘Anthea told me you were back,’ said Sherlock, quietly, even while his brother froze in the door frame, waiting as if for some sort of signal. 

Mycroft inclined his head. 

Disinclined to wait for his brother to make up his mind, Mycroft got to his feet and stepped to the wall, flicking the lights on to a dim, orange setting. It lit the room up in soft colours, lighting the curves of Sherlock’s young face. Silently, Mycroft walked over to the lounge, cast in dim orange light, and took a seat, waiting. 

Like a shy cat, Sherlock took his time in approaching, but approaching he eventually did, warily taking a seat across from Mycroft. Mycroft didn’t respond with anything but a small smile, carving across his face peacefully as his brother restlessly settled himself on the lounge across from him. 

‘Where have you been, Sherlock?’ he asked, a moment of silence later. Sherlock didn’t respond immediately, letting silence sit for a few more moments. 

‘I was… exploring,’ he seemed to decide on saying, eventually. 

‘Your discoveries?’ 

‘The soldiers on the lower levels have all their vices,’ he replied, smoothly. ‘Smoking, cards, the like. The women among them trade butter as a way to keep their skin smooth. The men share images of the women.’ 

Mycroft inclined his head. ‘As men of their persuasion are wont to do.’ 

There was another moment of silence. 

‘You did not come visit me after the first time,’ said Mycroft. ‘Why?’ 

‘You know why, Mycroft,’ said Sherlock, looking away. 

His words were old, it was true. But the image he cut was so different from that. Months, Mycroft had gone without seeing his brother, and so now he drunk in the sight. Sherlock had grown more gangly in the time, but not by much. He still held all his baby fat in his face, his fingers were still short and almost stubby. His feet swung freely above the ground where he was sitting on the lounge.

‘You are angry with me.’ 

‘Well deduced,’ Sherlock muttered. His voice was still hight, still so young. 

‘I told you I was leaving, Sherlock. You know I did.’ 

Sherlock slid of the lounge then, in a sudden flurry of movement. ‘Enough,’ the young boy snapped, moving away from him. 

Mycroft sighed, and got to his feet. Reaching out a hand, he laid it on Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘Go to bed, Sherlock. You are too tired. You should stay by me more, from now on.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Sherlock, turning to look up at Mycroft. 

‘There are dangers within this place, as well as without,’ replied Mycroft. 

He looked down at Sherlock. 

The risk of danger would not be enough to sway the younger boy. It would not be enough to convince him that he needed to stay with Mycroft. But he did. Mycroft needed Sherlock to stay by his side. 

‘I need you,’ said Mycroft, suddenly, deciding to take to his knees so he was now instead looking up into Sherlock’s face. ‘You are clever, Sherlock. You and I, together, we are cleverer than everyone else here. They are all goldfish, Sherlock.’ 

‘The Silver Knight is a goldfish.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft, inclining his head. ‘He is. I am not saying that they are not valuable, Sherlock. But for now, the Silver Knight is not here. For now, it is you and I.’ 

‘What of Anthea and Stamford?’ 

‘They are with us,’ said Mycroft. ‘But no one else. I need you by my side, Sherlock. I want you to help me.’ 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suspicious for a moment. But those eyes were sparkling, his small face curling into a tiny grin, white teeth showing. 

‘Will you help me?’ asked Mycroft, quietly. 

Sherlock froze, for a moment, gazing down at Mycroft suspiciously. But Mycroft gave nothing away more than a comforting smile and look at his younger brother. ‘Alright,’ Sherlock said, nodding his head. 

‘Good,’ Mycroft said, nodding his head. ‘Now, I believe it’s time for sleep.’ 

‘Are you going to sleep?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Of course.’ 

Sherlock nodded, satisfied with that answer. He looked as if he was about to turn, to run off back to where his bedroom was, on the far side of the central room. 

Before he did, though, he briefly flung his arms around Mycroft’s neck. It was only a brief thing, and Sherlock retracted his arms almost immediately, so quickly it seemed he had been stung. 

But for Mycroft, it was enough. 

His brother had not shown him affection for a long time. Certainly not since before their mother had died. But the brief hug, the brief touch of his arms around Mycroft’s neck, was very telling. 

For a moment, Mycroft considered what Sherlock had been through What Sherlock had experienced. The sight of Mycroft in the Arena may have been arresting for him, young as he was. 

But perhaps the most jarring experience for him certainly had to have been Gregory. Just as Gregory had punched a hole straight through Mycroft’s soul, his plans, his mind and very being, so too must Sherlock have been affected. 

Mycroft had always worked to give a certain part of himself to Sherlock. The idea of himself as an immoveable pillar, an untouchable figure that Sherlock could always rely upon to be logical and rational despite all else had been critical for the younger boy. But now, Sherlock had seen Mycroft moved. Had seen him injured. 

Certainly, it must be shaking the very foundations of what Sherlock had come to understand and see of his older brother. Sherlock had always seen him as a safe place. A predictable place to go for clarity. 

Now, he was clouded by this figure of Gregory, all floating around them like an unspoken topic not yet to be touched upon. 

Sentiment, as Sherlock had scoffed. The idea of sentiment, of caring for another outside their own, secular world bothered him. 

For so long, Sherlock had known that he himself was the centre of Mycroft’s life. Of Mycroft’s existence. Sherlock had been all Mycroft had been focused on for a long, long time, it was true. Sherlock had always known Mycroft was doing all this for him. 

But to think that Mycroft perhaps cared for someone other than Sherlock, felt true emotions for someone other than Sherlock may worry the younger boy. 

Mycroft had to do something. He had to do something soon, for Sherlock, to prove that Sherlock was still important to him. 

It was yet another thing to think upon, for the time being. For now, sleep. 

Getting to his feet, Mycroft reached over to his desk and grasped a painkiller, quickly swallowing it dry before making his own way over to his bed. He hadn’t yet looked at it, but when he did open the door, the sight was less than appealing. 

A double bed stood on the far side of the room on a plain, white frame. The bed itself was clinically made, with folded sheets and a simple, white headboard. Four pillows adorned the top of the mattress, and the quilt atop was itself uninspiring, plain and white. 

It would do. 

Carefully, Mycroft pulled his clothes from his aching body, the pain in his chest beginning to dampen as the painkillers began to work through his system. It was almost worrying, the number of painkillers he had to consume per day. However, he would have to endure it for the time being, until he could slowly work for longer periods without them. 

Lying down, he tried to clear his mind. Many thousands of things were running around inside, and he slowly began to systematically cut them down, organising his thoughts and carefully sorting them to deal with in the morning. 

Of course, an empty mind brought with it certain thoughts. 

Indeed, almost immediately, Gregory’s face appeared in his mind’s eye. Those kind, deep brown eyes, shimmering in the light of the sunrise. Silver hair glinting with light. 

It was calming to him, just the thought of his gilded lover standing in a sunrise, calmly smiling at him. Gregory’s bumbling words, his care and empathy for others, it all came to Mycroft first. 

Those things that Mycroft found so difficult Gregory made so easy. For Gregory, this imagined distance between himself and everyone else that Sherlock and he had constructed around themselves didn’t exist. Gregory’s face, his voice, his actions, they all swept in and consumed him, and for a little time, it was enough. 

That was what nights had become to Mycroft. Nights were for Gregory and himself, and no one else. 

***

The first thing Mycroft had seen in the morning was the flashing notice on the screen at the far end of the room when he left his bedroom. On the table was an assortment of food, however the red words were the first thing to catch his attention. The second, of course, was the sight of Anthea bursting in through the doors. 

Today she wore black trousers matched with a dark grey tunic, stitching over the shoulder.

The notice on the screen read ‘Assembly - Dock Room One’ in bold, flashing red lettering. 

‘Culverton called an assembly,’ said Anthea, thrusting a clothing bag at him. ‘Your suit.’ 

Mycroft inclined his head, and vanished to dress, before re-appearing. Sherlock was now in the room, his curls neatly pressed down, almost tameable, and he now wore something more presentable than a set of shorts and a ratty shirt. He was also dressed in a tunic and pants, but in a paler grey colour than Anthea’s. 

Anthea held something else out to him, not looking up from her data pad. ‘You’re not going to like it, Mycroft, but you’d better put these on.’

Mycroft opened what she had handed him to reveal a large pin and chain. The pin itself was taped into a very distinctive symbol, a small sword surrounded by a circle. ‘This is —‘ 

‘—Yes,’ said Anthea. ‘It’s the Silver Knight’s symbol. Culverton made it the symbol of the Resistance some time ago, towards the middle of the Games.’ 

Mycroft gritted his teeth. ‘Gregory is not a symbol,’ he ground out. ‘This… this will drag him in far before I wanted him to be.’ 

‘Accept it, Mycroft,’ said Anthea, her voice soft, as she finally looked up from the glowing screen. ‘He is a symbol.’ 

Mycroft bowed his head. ‘I had hoped.’ 

‘Hope,’ Sherlock muttered, from the corner. ‘A fool’s dream. Are you a fool, Mycroft?’ 

Mycroft didn’t deign to respond. Anthea sighed, and inclined her head towards the door. ‘We have to go. Now.’ 

Quickly, Mycroft walked out the door. Dock Room One was at the bottom of the silo, where a series of large cavernous spaces and warehouses had been carved out of the rock and dirt. It had been ventilated with ancient remnants of the old world, before the Fall. Now, a better system of air recycling was in place, but Mycroft followed the old metal pipes down, Sherlock to his left and Anthea to his right.

The silo itself was a bustle of activity, Resistance soldiers all in black traipsing up and down the hallways, the general flow all going in the same direction. 

It was a hurried few minutes as the three of them made their way down to the the central area. As they got lower, the sight of children, men and women who weren’t soldiers became more common, their lack of armour and organisation clear as they also ambled towards Dock Room One. 

‘Refugees,’ murmured Anthea. ‘The ones we’ve picked up, anyway. Many are from District Five and District Twelve.’

Mycroft inclined his head, even as he moved past a young family still with soot smeared over their faces. 

Soon enough, they reached a large hangar door, old metal doors hanging wide open. The large words Dock Room One hung over the entrance, leading into the wide, open space. It was dimly-lit, lights strung up in the corners of the room letting of an almost unpleasant, pale sort of light. 

On the ground, to Mycroft’s surprise, were camping beds and bedrolls, even tents and storage units, all piled around haphazardly in groups, gathered in the pools of light let off by the industrial lighting system. 

‘That way,’ gestured Anthea, pointing to the far side of the room where a temporary stage had been set up, with five chairs and not much else. Already seated were Mike Stamford, his almost rotund figure crammed into one of the almost spindly looking seats.

Another was occupied by a woman Mycroft had briefly seen before out of the corner of his eye in the Capitol; a high ranking official no doubt by the richness of the fabrics she wore.

However, in the central seat sat Culverton Smith.

The de facto leader of the Resistance wore a pale suit with a thin tie and white shirt in the old style, his hair neatly coiffed over his head. He was older in age, his hair greying to white, and his eyes narrow and piggish. Deep lines were etched into his face, creasing around the slight smile he had decorating his face. He briefly looked over at the woman, who was sitting to his left, opening his thin, pale lips in a smile to reveal almost jagged looking teeth. The sight of them, familiar to Mycroft, was still disgusting, testament to years of uncaring attention and a sugar habit. 

Silently, he gestured for Sherlock to take a seat in one of the chairs at the bottom of the makeshift stage, still looking out over the people gathered there, but certainly not as visible. Anthea then followed him up onto stage, as he took his place beside Culverton. 

The sight of him sent ripples through the crowd, whispers shared amongst friends and colleagues as the truth of his identity spread. He had been kept far from the ordinary medical bay, only one doctor ever coming to treat him. Certainly, his presence had been a guarded secret, up to this point. 

Of course, Culverton was keeping the secret for a purpose that was clearer to Mycroft than the day. Revealing it now must have some sort of purpose. 

Mycroft took his seat, nodding politely at the other people gathered on the stage. Culverton himself leaned over, and patted Mycroft on the shoulder. ‘Good to see you!’ he exclaimed, baring his rotten teeth and breathing out a most foul smell that washed through Mycroft’s nostrils, leaving a nasty scent. ‘We weren’t sure you were gonna make it for a bit there.’ 

‘Well,’ said Mycroft, ‘You know my methods.’ 

Culverton let out a forced chuckle. ‘That we do, Mycroft old chap, that we do.’ 

‘What news of you, Culverton?’ asked Mycroft, politely, turning to gaze out over the people still gathering in the room. People were still streaming in through the doors, but the stream was slowing down to a trickle. 

‘I’ve been hard at work while you’ve been frolicking about in that Arena,’ replied Culverton, smiling all the while. ‘It’s been quite fun, really. All these people, they are ever so desperate for hope.’ 

‘They are, rather,’ Mycroft agreed. ‘And my frolicking in the Arena, as you so called it, brought them what they so dearly craved.’ 

‘Oh, I meant no offence, old friend!’ insisted Culverton. ‘Of course, there is the small matter of Gregory Lestrade left to discuss. The Silver Knight,’ Culverton sighed, almost dreamily. ‘He’s just… perfect.’ 

Mycroft inclined his head. ‘I would be inclined to agree.’ 

‘You know, of course,’ murmured Culverton. ‘Who he is. What the name Lestrade would mean for us.’ 

‘I do,’ replied Mycroft. 

Culverton smirked, and fell silent. 

Just then, the woman stood up, and stepped forwards, clearing her throat meaningfully. All the chatter in the room that was almost deafening fell silent, and the woman began to speak. 

‘Good morning, everyone,’ she began. ‘As ever, we begin with the week’s agenda; we plan to move further into District Five this evening, as well as into District Twelve. Bringing refugees…’ 

The woman continued speaking, and Mycroft kept listening in one corner of his mind. The rest, he turned towards Culverton. The man was entirely silent at his side, acting at watching avidly the proceedings. People were moving about, retrieving various things, even as refugees began to move forwards and raise their hands each to speak, to whisper to their families who should be brought into the fold next. 

It was dangerous, this many people knowing he was alive, yet at the same time he doubted anyone was truly allowed to leave or get messages to the outside. It was a ship in a bottle that Culverton had constructed here, a magnificent creation that could never be removed. 

Mycroft let himself glance over at Anthea, who was looking between her data pad on her lap, and the room itself. 

The woman had clearly finished speaking, and she turned to look at the four of them seated behind her, glancing over each one by one. Then, she turned back. 

‘Of course, our leader Culverton Smith would like to speak with you all this morning,’ she said, clapping politely even as she stepped back and allowed Culverton to step forwards and spread his hands. 

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he began, enthusiastically. ‘What a wonderful week we’ve had. We have, of course, had many from District Twelve join our ranks, and those new from District Five, we welcome you. If you need food or anything else of the sort please don’t hesitate to contact the nearest soldier, who can procure those things for you. 

‘And, of course, you may have noticed our newest addition. Well, perhaps not so new, for those of you who already know, as he has been here recovering for some weeks. I am sure you are all familiar with him, and I am also certain he would like to speak with you.’ 

Culverton turned, and cast an almost wolfish smile back at Mycroft. 

‘What do you need?’ Anthea asked, leaning over to whisper into his ear. 

‘The right words,’ replied Mycroft. 

Then, he straightened his waistcoat and stood, stepping forwards to where Culverton was standing. Culverton laid a single hand on his shoulder, then leaned up and in to whisper in his ear. ‘Good luck. You have your audience to convince.’ 

The leader of the Resistance seemed to take an odd sort of joy in that, even as Mycroft’s own confidence grew. 

This was what he needed, what he had manipulated Culverton into granting him. An audience. 

Clearing his throat, Mycroft stepped forwards. 

‘You may know who I am, but for those of you who don’t, I am Mycroft Holmes. 

‘I was the District One Tribute for the 74th Hunger Games, just recently passed.’ 

Immediately, there was more whispering. Of course, they all knew who he was - the Games were mandatory viewing, even here in the silo. 

Mycroft allowed this to continue, for a moment, before raising his hand and prompting silence. Slowly, the silence grew, as the whispers died. 

Then, he waited a moment longer. 

‘We are all different people. We all come from different walks of life. There are bakers amongst you. Soldiers, miners, farmers. We are all different in our walks of life, but in this we are all aligned. 

‘When you are in the Arena,’ and now Mycroft began to pace, back and forth, folding his hand behind his back. People were watching him, silent now, observing his next move. ‘You must find those you are allied with. You must find those who you shall stand beside. Those you shall defend. For myself, that was for a time my fellow Careers. Then, it was the Silver Knight.’ The whispering began once more. ‘Now, I choose you all.’ 

With that, he stopped, turning to look out over his audience. 

‘I choose you all to stand beside me. Fight beside me, in the greatest Hunger Games of our lives. 

‘These Hunger Games will not have just one winner. These Hunger Games will not be a symbol of the injustice, of the oppression. They will be a symbol of the future, of a future in which men, women and children will not have to suffer injustices. A future which is fair, and truthful, and merciful.

‘A good future.’ 

Everyone was watching him, now. All the eyes in the room, even those of the youngest child, were turned towards him. The promise of a good future was tempting them, like wafting the sweetest nectar under their noses. 

‘You and I, all of us, we have been slaves all our lives to the Capitol. I say, no more. We shall fight for what is right. For our children, for the future generations, may they never have to fight for what is rightfully theirs! 

‘So I ask you all to stand before me now. I ask more of you now than any other leader has ever asked you before. I ask you not to suffer injustices any longer.

‘I ask of you to build with me a good future!’ 

With that, Mycroft paused, waiting. 

Then, the low thumping began. 

It began in the back of the room, a quiet thunder of people slapping their hands on the dirt, slamming the hilts of their weapons into the ground. People began to clap in time with one another, standing and stamping their feet in a chorus of thunderous, rolling noice. 

Everyone was standing, now, people were cheering, behind him he could hear Anthea, Stamford and the other woman had gotten to their feet and were also clapping. 

People began to shout out to him, shouting his name, shouting words in their own tongues, all sorts leading to a cacophony of noise. 

‘Let us build a good future!’ bellowed Mycroft, raising a fist. ‘Together!’ 

The shouting and cacophonous noise became, if possible, louder. It echoed through the hall in a rolling wave of sound, washing over Mycroft and rattling the stage beneath his feet. 

Mycroft lowered his head, looking out over his people, and finally allowing a small, victorious smile to spread. 


	5. Rebel

‘It is good to meet you,’ said Mycroft, smiling at her.

Sally watched Mycroft as he raised his hand, an unknown signal leading to the other black-clothed Peacekeepers also removing their own face masks to reveal an assortment of young men and women, all smiling kindly at them. 

‘Mycroft Holmes,’ breathed Maya, squeezing Sally’s hand.

Mycroft himself wore an almost soft smile, his slate eyes shifting in the light. 

Alex snuck around Sally’s side, and stepped between Mycroft and Sally, holding out a hand to Mycroft. ‘You’re Greg’s friend from the Arena,’ said Alex. Mycroft let out a low, enchanting chuckle. 

‘Yes,’ he replied, his smooth, slightly gravelly voice washing over her. 

The last few hours had been so tense, she had spent the time being so worried that the sudden transition to a position of safety was almost a shock. Sally almost didn’t want to believe what she was seeing before her; still on guard as if they would be attacked at any moment. 

But she had faith in Mycroft. 

What he said on the tele screen just yesterday was inspiring. It was angry and passionate, and felt as if Mycroft had given words to everything she’d felt before.

She wanted to trust him. 

Slowly, Sally reached out a hand, offering it to Mycroft in a gesture of peace. Mycroft looked at it, for a moment, calmly, his eyes evaluating her, and his hands folded in front of himself. 

Then, slowly, he seemed to see something in her, and he reached out to her, holding out his own hand and gently taking hers, shaking once solemnly before pulling his hand back. ‘Greg told me of you. In the Arena.’ 

Sally nodded once. ‘Can you get us somewhere safe?’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Please, if you would follow me. The Resistance soldiers can help you with your things. You must have been walking for many hours - District Ten is miles away.’ 

‘We were,’ said Molly, softly, stepping forwards. ‘We needed to get away.’

‘Why?’ asked Mycroft. ‘What happened?’ 

‘Don’t you know?’ asked Sally, turning her eyes on him in surprise. 

Mycroft shook his head, looking past Sally and towards the foliage behind her, his eyes flashing darkly. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘I do not. I was not informed that District Ten was a dangerous place.’ 

There was silence, as Mycroft seemed a million miles away for a moment, clearly thinking about something entirely unfathomable to Sally. It was almost entrancing to watch as Sally could practically watch Greg’s lover’s mind run a thousand miles an hour. 

But there wasn’t time for Mycroft to think right now. Alex and Lottie were tired, Lottie was hurt, badly, and she needed to get them safe before she could even think about where Greg had ended up. 

‘Can we get somewhere safe first please?’ asked Sally, catching Mycroft’s attention once more. ‘I need to get my brother and sister somewhere safer than this. Then we can talk.’ 

Mycroft seemed to come back to himself, looking at her and shaking his head in apology. ‘I’m very sorry, of course. Please, if you would follow me.’ 

Sally watched as on another hand signal, the hovercraft humming above them let down a platform. Then, Mycroft smoothly moved past her to kneel next to Lottie, and take a look at her ankle. 

Long fingers extended to prod gently at the swelling around the small, bony ankle. Charlotte herself remained quiet and deathly still, as if she was afraid to make a move. ‘Hello,’ said Mycroft, softly, to her, in a calming voice, as if speaking to a startled animal. ‘Do you know who I am?’ 

‘Mycroft,’ said Charlotte. ‘Greg’s friend.’ 

‘That’s right,’ replied Mycroft, nodding his head. ‘I can help you. Will you let me carry you?’ 

There was a moment of silence as Lottie seemed to understand this request and think about it for a moment, before she quickly bobbed her head once. Mycroft inclined his own. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured, before sliding his arms beneath her small body and lifting her with barely a bit of effort. 

Then, he breezed past Sally, and stepped towards the platform. 

Quickly, Sally moved to keep up with him, grasping both Maya and Alex’s hand and tugging them along. In front of them, Molly had already been helped up by another of the Resistance soldiers, as had Sam. They had taken their packs, and each Resistance soldier was carrying one. 

Slowly, they were all also getting lifted back into the hovercraft, lifted up by the same ropes that they had been dropped down on. 

Mycroft helped place Charlotte gently down on the platform, before he helped Sally up as well, before stepping back.

Raising his fist to the sky in some sort of signal, the platform then jolted under their feet, and they were lifted out of the foliage. The ground grew further and further away underneath them, as slowly they were lifted higher and higher. They lifted through the trees, up past towering oaks and through the soft leaves, past tiny animals scuttling and scurrying about tin the upper branches. 

‘Wow,’ whispered Alex, as they reached the top of the trees, where they could finally see for miles. There was nothing around them aside from forest, the trees looking like tiny little green pins, all sticking up close to one another like an ocean. 

They were drawn up three through the bowels of the hovercraft, through into a large area where the hatch doors closed up beneath them. The platform then set itself down on the floor of the hovercraft. 

Carefully, Sally stepped off, feeling the metal floor beneath her hum. Around her, the hovercraft was a bustle of activity, soldiers buzzing about the place, and pilots sitting calmly in their seats in front of large windows that looked out over the forest. 

Mycroft stood in the middle of the chaos, issuing orders in a low, calm voice. It was almost astonishing to see how they all leapt to do his bidding, moving about the interior of the hovercraftsmess of glowing lights and flickering screens. 

Slowly, the activity seemed to die down, even as the humming beneath her feet picked up, as the hovercraft began to glide smoothly up into the clouds, so they couldn’t be seen from the ground. Soldiers began to take their places in canvas seating on the walls, lining the metal frame of the hovercraft. 

Mycroft himself turned towards her, his hands folded behind his back, still clothed in black. ‘We are heading for the Resistance base now,’ he informed her, stepping towards them. 

Behind her, Sally saw that a medic wearing white had quickly helped Lottie, and was now inspecting her ankle, an open box of medication beside her. It had all happened so quickly, reams of white bandages rolling out and around her sister’s swollen ankle. 

Molly and Sam had been helped to a set of proper seats, and Sam had been given a little more food Molly herself was staring around the place just as Sally had been, a look of astonishment on her face. Alex, meanwhile, had stuck to Sally’s side like glue, both his hands wrapped around one of her own. 

‘You are safe now,’ said Mycroft, gesturing to three empty canvas seats that had been left for them towards the front of the hovercraft. ‘Please, sit.’ 

Sally inclined her head, tugging Alex over to the seats and helping him into one, securing a small belt around his lap, before taking a seat herself. Mycroft had already buckled himself in, and waited for her. 

His eyes glinted as she took a seat, watching her with interest. He waited for her to speak first quietly, patiently. 

‘How did you know where we were?’ asked Sally, her voice quiet. Mycroft frowned, and looked away from her, out the window. 

‘I heard that District Ten was to be raided at the very last moment. I also heard that Victor’s Ball had been suddenly planned and had appeared in the Capitol public forum after my speech on the Network. So I knew that Gregory was smart enough to run. 

‘I had not expected him to have chosen not to run with you. Yet, I believe I should have. It is who he is.’

Sally inclined her head, and laughed a humourless chuckle. ‘It is, I guess. He’s always gotta be the hero.’ 

‘He always feels he must do the right thing. Even if it means great danger for himself. That is a fundamental truth. 

‘It saddens me that he did not think I had a plan in place to find him as soon as I could. That his faith in me was so little.’ 

‘I don’t think it was that,’ sighed Sally. ‘He knew the Capitol wanted him. He knew that he was a symbol. That’s why he let them grab him.’

Mycroft didn’t respond, not for a long moment. He just looked at her, observing her silent through unfathomable, deep slate eyes. 

After a moment of silence, he spoke. ‘John is not with you. I would have presumed John would be the first person Gregory would try to remove from the situation he is undoubtedly in.’ 

‘He tried,’ murmured Sally. ‘He did. But John didn’t want to leave him. John didn’t want _Greg _to leave him. And… I can’t bear it. The thought… I don’t know where he is, Mycroft. I don’t. I don’t know if they’re safe, I don’t know if John is even _alive_, and—‘ 

‘—breathe,’ interrupted Mycroft, laying a large hand on her shoulder. It was enough to calm, her, for a moment. Those slate eyes held such assured confidence, that for a moment, Sally felt her worries slip away. 

It was as if Mycroft was a vortex of calm, emanating an aura of assurance. For it seemed he was sure in who he was and what he could do. 

‘We shall find him, that I promise you. Both John and Gregory will be returned to us before long. And they are not dead. I can assure you that they are not. I would know if either were.’ 

‘How can you know that?’ Sally got out, her voice breathy, her stomach still roiling with panic. 

‘I did not go into this blind. I have planned for every contingency, Sally. There are people inside the Capitol who are loyal to us, who can help us.’ 

Sally fell silent. It would have to be enough, for now. Enough to know that Mycroft was certain. 

Then, Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?’ 

Dryly, Sally swallowed, before beginning. ‘Well,’ she murmured, ‘you were on the tele screen, making your big speech. We’d all gotten together in the living room in Greg’s house. 

‘When you popped up, well… he was surprised to say the least. He went into shock, I think. I don’t reckon he believed it really, at first. Then, he went outside for a bit of a breather, and then Dimmock — the District Ten Tribute that coached them — he came up the hill and told us that the Peacekeepers were coming for us.; 

Sally sighed, and leaned back in her seat, looking out the window to where the sky was rushing past. Beside her, Alex was also watching, mesmerised, and tiredly rubbing at his eyes, almost absentmindedly. 

‘The next bit’s a blur, really. Greg gave us all this food and a knife and things, gave us clothes and told us to run, to go into the forest around the District, and—‘ 

‘—how did you get past the fence?’ asked Mycroft, interrupting her. 

‘It’s never electrified. It costs too much to electrify it all the way out where we live.’ 

‘Ah,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘I suspected so. The cost that the Capitol spends on electrifying the fence has always been far less than it should be. That is good to know.’ 

Sally inclined her head. ‘Well, the rest you kinda know. We walked through the forest all the way out until you found us. How long had you been looking?’ 

‘Well,’ said Mycroft, ‘There was only really a small area in which you could have been given the time that you presumably had to flee and the average rate at which you could have been moving. 

‘I suspected Gregory may not have been with you, however—‘ 

‘—you had hoped.’ 

Mycroft let out a low sigh, and inclined his head. ‘I’m afraid so. A foolish errand, hope.’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Sally. ‘But you gotta have it anyway.’ 

Mycroft didn’t reply, just turned those observant, slate grey eyes back to her, silently watching her for a moment longer, before returning to look out the window. 

***

A short journey later, and they had arrived in what Mycroft had called the Silo. Maya, Molly, Sam, Alex and Charlotte had all gathered around her in the hovercraft, standing as the ramp at the back of the hovercraft was lowered with a clang to what appeared to be a concrete floor inside a large hangar at the bottom of a massive, underground cylinder. 

Around them, the soldiers were filing neatly off the craft to the ground below, moving off in columns toward a set of large, open hangar doors on the far side of the curved wall. 

‘Where are we?’ asked Sam, in a small voice. 

‘The Silo,’ replied Mycroft, gazing out over the progress of the soldiers. ‘This is where the Resistance has been hiding for some time now.’ 

‘What about the Capitol?’ asked Sally. ‘Don’t they know this is here? Don’t they know that their hovercraft have gone missing?’ 

‘Well, that is the beauty of the Silo,’ replied Mycroft, a small smile of pride on his features. ‘It is from the Old World. Before Panem. We found it entirely abandoned. As for the hovercraft, they are old, de-comissioned craft that we rebuilt.’ 

‘You seem well prepared,’ commented Molly. 

‘This has been planned for years upon years now,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Come, I will show you where you must go.’ 

Silently, the six of them followed after Mycroft, who stepped gracefully out of the ship, his ginger hair dark brown in the dim light, down the ramp to the bottom. On the ground there was a tall woman with dark hair coiffed neatly around her head, clothed in a simple, dark grey tunic and leggings. On her shoulders sat odd, metallic looking plates with a strange symbol stamped into them, one Sally couldn’t quite make out, but it seemed to be identical to the ones stamped on Mycroft’s uniform, and in various other places she had seen. 

Mycroft gestured for them, and slowly, they traipsed down the ramp to the concrete floor, stepping out and looking around. 

‘Wow,’ murmured Maya, beside her, as they all took in the sight around them. They were in a large, circular hangar at the bottom of the cylindrical, underground base. At the top was a massive hatch that must have closed up entirely behind them, leaving them in dim light. Around the cylinder, winding all the way to the top, were massive glass pipes that Sally could see people moving around in, stretching around the circumference of the cylinder, and arching across to reach from one side to the other. 

And people. People were everywhere, darting back and forth holding supplies, weapons, piles of armour. All were dressed either in the black, Peacekeeper-esque carapaces, or in similar tunics to the woman speaking with Mycroft in a low voice. 

Sally cast another glance around, and suddenly her eyes caught on the painted symbol on one of the curved walls. She knew that symbol. 

It was Greg’s. 

Or the Silver Knight, she guessed. 

The carving John had done, of the sword through the circle, it was painted on the walls. She suddenly realised that was the symbol that was stamped everywhere, on the sides of the hovercraft, on the shoulders of all the people in tunics wandering around. Mycroft had it stamped onto his own armour, it was sprayed on weapons. The symbol was just… everywhere. 

Sally knew Greg was a symbol. That the Silver Knight was a symbol. She just hadn’t really realised what that meant. 

It seemed almost like branding, like the Capitol’s branding on all their goods. They were fighting a war of symbolism, slowly taking on the Capitol’s ubiquitous sign with their own. 

‘That’s the sword. Greg’s sword,’ she pointed out to Maya. Maya inclined her head. 

‘Yeah, I reckon it is,’ she replied. ‘He really means something, here.’ 

Sally didn’t want to think about the consequences of that. Not too muc if she could help it. 

Mycroft turned to them, a moment later, while they were all still gazing around the Resistance’s home, and smiled, kindly. ‘This is Anthea,’ he said, gesturing to the woman beside him. ‘She is a very old friend of mine. If you need anything, you can come and find her, or me.’ 

‘It is good to meet you,’ said Anthea, stepping forwards, and holding out her hand to Sally. Her hand was small, and clean, and Sally shook it, carefully, her own hands looking dirty and inelegant in comparison. 

Anthea also smiled, before gliding off in the opposite direction, a device of some sort materialising in her hands. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘Come,’ he said, gesturing, ‘Let us find a place for you to sleep. I am afraid that right now it may not be the most comfortable of accomodations. We are taking in many refugees from their districts such as yourselves. I’m afraid we are beginning to run out of space.’ 

Leading them through yet another massive set of hangar doors into a sort of tent-city space, Sally was astonished to see that this was true. Other people were all gathered about in clusters, families, children running about, adults cooking and talking amongst themselves. 

It was crowded, people clustered all over the place, small camper beds set up with various bedding, mattresses and threadbare blankets stacked atop them. Soldiers moved through, all with helmets off, laughing and talking. 

Despite the rather cramped conditions, the laundry hanging from various make-shift posts, the small fires started in turned over, metal barrels, people cooking over them, there was something about it all. Something freeing, a sense of community. 

Sally could see, as they strolled through, that people were clean of soot and didn’t look as desperate as she had sometimes seen amongst people who fled their districts. Children were free to run about, free of fear and worry. 

‘What are you going to do when the Reaping comes?’ asked Sally, taking a longer step to fall in beside Mycroft, her voice quiet. ‘The Capitol are surely going to notice so many people gone.’ 

Mycroft inclined his head. ‘Indeed, they already have noticed. But I’m afraid there isn’t really much they can do about it. They cannot find us, even if they tried.’

‘And infiltration? Peacekeepers posing as refugees?’ 

‘We bring refugees in blind,’ replied Mycroft. ‘They are brought in through the clouds just as you were. Do you know exactly where we are?’ 

‘No,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘But tracking devices?’ 

‘Ah,’ smiled Mycroft, ‘And this is quite clever. We have a security beacon. It prevents all signals from unregistered devices from leaving the region.’ 

‘Clever,’ commented Maya, on Sally’s other side. ‘I’d be really interested in how that worked.’ 

‘Well, if you like, I can perhaps ask one of our technicians to take you there,’ said Mycroft. ‘Maya, is it not? The daughter of a banker in District Ten?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Maya, smiling. ‘That’s me. Did Greg tell you about me?’ 

‘He did,’ Mycroft said, smiling kindly at her. ‘He told me a great deal of all of you, in the Arena. He cares very deeply for you all. You were all family to him.’

Sally fell out of step with Mycroft then, letting the dark-haired man lead the way through the tent city. She let his words wash over her, the comfort of knowing who they were to Greg, how much hey had meant to him…

Maya smiled at her, and squeezed her hand, letting the children go ahead of them along with Molly, listening to Mycroft’s explanation, entirely mesmerised. They trailed behind the pack, slowly. 

‘He was like a brother to me,’ murmured Sally. ‘He is, I mean.’ 

Maya nodded. ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t think I meant that much to him, he didn’t really know me that well.’ 

‘Greg’s good at people. If he likes you, that pretty much means you’re good in his books. And, I think, he saw how much you mean to me.’ 

Maya smiled, again, leaning into Sally. 

The comfort of her girlfriend, and the comfort of where they were, safe with Mycroft just like Greg told her they would be, warmed her inside. 

Even better, the sight of all these people made her happy. All these refugees, freed from the Capitol’s oppression. None of these children would ever have to worry about being reaped. None of these parents, these brothers, these sisters would ever have to worry that their loved ones would be stolen away and tossed into an Arena, or killed for another of the Capitol’s blood sports. 

None of these people would have to work the land or the sea, none would have to dig in the mines for nothing more than to starve alone. 

It was incredible, all that had been built here. 

Mycroft was incredible. 

As he moved through what had been built here for all these freed people, they looked to him. The refugees all looked up at him with smiles of gratitude. Children darted happily around him, tapping his legs before darting back off into the crowd. Every so often, people would reach out and touch Mycroft, and in return the former Tribute would touch his own hands to them, harbouring no reservations for showing affection to his people. 

He reminded her of a king from the old stories. A kind king. A good leader.

And Sally could finally see what Greg had seen in him. 

***

The place Mycroft had led them to was on the far side of the room in a corner. It was empty aside from eight beds with neatly stacked blankets, sheets and mattresses. The beds were grouped in a loose circle, set up like a star pointing outwards. There were a few other amenities dotted about, including a half-barrel of metal filled with coal for a fire of some kind, another barrel with what Sally presumed was food inside, and a small tent. 

‘I took the liberty of having this set up for you,’ Mycroft said, gesturing at the small group of beds. ‘There are a few more beds than you need for the moment, however I am sure that they will hopefully soon be filled.’ 

Two more, to be precise. 

Sally glanced at Mycroft, while the children raced ahead to claim beds for themselves, Charlotte limping along as quickly as she could, making for a bed in the very corner. 

Mycroft was gazing at the beds with a sad sort of smile on his face, a wistful look that made him seem a thousand miles away. 

Quietly, Sally laid a hand on his shoulder. It was brief, but it was a touch of solidarity. There were two extra beds for a reason. 

As quickly as she placed it, Sally drew it away, even as Maya beckoned her to a bed to Charlotte’s left. Molly had already claimed on near Sam. Smiling, Sally moved across the circle to join her, finally dropping the bag that Greg had given to her to the floor beside the low bed. She took the one further from the wall, allowing Maya to take the one closer to the wall, between herself and Charlotte. 

Molly was to her other side, smiling and sitting on the bed with Sam, pulling things from the bag that Greg had given her. 

Various items of clothing were pulled out, along with some cutlery, and canned foods as well as some fresh fruit. Nodding her head, sharply, Sally began to follow suit, sitting down on the bed and pulling things out of her own bag. 

Mycroft stood there, watching them, observing them with those watchful eyes, his hands clasped behind his back. Sally spared him a glance, then turned back to the task at hand. 

He reminded her a little of an eagle, the way he moved with grace, but with deadly talons ready to strike. 

In her own bag Greg had given her more food, less fresh food and more canned foods, jars of spreads and flour, some jars also filled with beef jerky and other dried meats and fruits. It would make for good eating over the next few weeks they would be here. Hopefully. 

Sally suddenly realised that Anthea was back. She had materialised out of the chattering crowds of people with her face glued to a device, tapping Mycroft on the shoulder and whispering urgently to him. Mycroft nodded, briefly at her, before moving towards Sally. Immeidately, Sally offered him a small smile, pausing in what she was doing. 

‘You have to go, don’t you?’ she asked him. 

He inclined his head. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he replied. ‘The leader of the Resistance; Culverton Smith, has requested my presence.’ 

‘I thought you were the leader?’ Sally asked, confused. ‘Aren’t you?’ 

Mycroft sighed, and shook his head. ‘I believe it is more complicated than that,’ he replied. 

‘It always is,’ she murmured. ‘Alright. But come back, Mycroft.’ 

Mycroft looked at her, surprised and confused. ‘Would you like me to?’ 

‘Of course,’ Sally replied, letting her smile grow. ‘I want to talk to you, Mycroft. You seem interesting. Greg certainly likes you.’ 

‘Ah,’ nodded Mycroft, ‘I see.’ 

His words were clinical, but despite that Sally could see a small smile on his face. It was pleasing to see. 

Mycroft turned on one foot, pivoting to walk off through the tent city, casting a single glance back before moving away. Sally laughed to herself, before turning back to her bag, digging through to pull out the last of what was left inside. 

Just then, her hand struck upon something she hadn’t expected. A small circle of wood, a carved sword running straight through. 

It was familiar to her, something she’d seen in Greg’s pocket a lot, during the Games especially. But this one was the original. The original little sword, carved by John during class at his little school in the District. 

Greg had put it here for a reason. He had to have. 

Sally got to her feet, suddenly realising. 

‘Where are you going?’ asked Maya, catching her hand. 

‘Mycroft,’ replied Sally. ‘I have to get him before he leaves. I have to give him something.’ 

Maya didn’t reply, just let go of her hand, and let her dart off through the people. It was more of a task, because they didn’t part for her like they did for Mycroft. She had to push through, running to keep up with Mycroft’s long strides. He was already halfway across to the doors, though, and people kept nearly tripping her up. 

‘Mycroft!’ she called out to him. ‘Wait!’ 

Freezing, the tall former Tribute turned to look back at her, curiosity in those slate grey eyes. He waited for her to catch up, to her relief. 

Reaching out, she took ahold of his hand, lifting it so she could press the wooden pendant into his hand, curling the leather cord it was in onto the large palm gently. 

Mycroft let out a low gasp as he saw what it was she had pressed into his hand. 

‘Sorry,’ she said, trying to catch her breath. ‘I just had to catch you. I found this in my bag — I know Greg wants me to give it to you.’ 

Mycroft didn’t say anything, just stared at the pendant in his hands silently. He seemed to have ground to a halt, all the little cogs and gears that made him run halting where they were. 

His eyes were completely blank, as he stood, frozen, the crude little wooden pendant just sitting there in his hands. 

‘Gregory…’ Mycroft murmured, after a moment. ‘He… gave this to you? For me?’ 

‘He put it in my bag,’ she replied, still holding Mycroft’s hand with her own, pressing the pendant in with her thumb. His long fingers were shaking slightly. 

Mycroft remained silent.

‘You know,’ said Sally, softly. ‘He didn’t stop talking about you. When he came back. He was… is… he is so in love with you. He’s just… enchanted by you. 

‘If I didn’t know witches weren’t real I’d think you’d have cast a spell on him. I know you haven’t… but…’ 

Sally fell into silence, again.

It was hard to put into words what she wanted to say. ‘I’ve… I’ve never seen Greg like that before, and I’ve known him for longer than I can even remember. He helped me through so many tough times. He’s my brother in every way except blood. He’s always looked out for me, and everyone else. 

‘And… with you… he’s just brighter. Brighter than he already was, I mean. 

‘When you died, he tried so hard. Tried so hard to put himself back together in the District with us. I don’t think it really worked, but he tried so hard to do it. For us. 

‘It hurt me. Just seeing how much pain he was in when he thought you were dead. And the first thing he told me he felt when he saw you alive was joy. He was so happy. 

‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s angry with you. You let him believe you were dead for five months. He’s not just gonna let that slide. But he’s happy you’re back. I know he is. 

‘I don’t know where he is now. I don’t know if he’s even safe. But he saw something good in you. He saw that you could make the world better than the shit one we’ve always known. 

‘He thinks you’re a good man. That’s better than good enough for me. So I’m giving you this. I know he meant for you to have it. Just… to have a piece of him while he’s not here.’ 

Mycroft was silent, for a few more seconds. Then, he looked up at her with wide, slate grey eyes. They seemed almost paler than they had before, richer in colour. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured. ‘You cannot comprehend what this means to me.’ 

Sally smiled. ‘No worries, mate.’ 

Dropping her hands, she looked down, shuffling her feet, awkwardly. She watched, through her lashes, as Mycroft seemed to go into a reverie, lifting the wooden pendant to his mouth and gently pressing, his eyes closing. 

They stood there, like that, for a moment, before Mycroft dropped his hands, holding the pendant between his fingers tightly. 

He seemed to regain some composure, looking at her with calm eyes, a small smile on his face. ‘Thank you for this, Sally. I cannot find the words to express how grateful I am.’ 

Sally waved his repeated thanks away. ‘I want to help,’ she said, determined. 

Mycroft nodded. ‘You already are,’ he replied. 

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I want to do more. Can I become a soldier?’ 

Mycroft nodded, again. ‘I think, perhaps, you should discuss this with your paramour. But of course, if that is what you would like, I would be happy to have you trained and for you to join the ranks.’ 

Suddenly, a beeping sound came from an unseen pocket. A small frown crossed Mycroft’s face, but it quickly disappeared, replaced with an apologetic smile. ‘I must go, I am truly sorry we cannot speak longer,’ he said. 

‘It’s fine, you’re busy,’ she replied, waving her hand again, and shaking her head. 

‘Anthea will bring to you the uniform, and she’ll let you know where you need to go to be stationed. Anyone else amongst your group who thinks they can contribute, feel free to talk with her about it. I will come and visit you tomorrow when I have a chance. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll also bring my brother.’ 

‘Sherlock?’ asked Sally, remembering the name from what Greg had told her. Mycroft inclined his head, with a smile. 

‘Indeed. I must be off,’ he said. Then, ‘Thank you. Once more.’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Sally. waving her hand, and allowing him to move off. 

She might have imagined it, but Mycroft seemed to hold his shoulders almost imperceptibly higher.


	6. Interview

The Capitol was just as Greg had recalled; shiny lights, great towers of silver jutting into the sky, stabbing through the clouds. Colourful people dressed in wild fashions, with hair to the heavens and strange, modified facial features. John looked around from the inside of the car, his eyes wide as the ultra-modern city shot past. 

It was a world away from District Ten, with its farmlands and its tiny houses, all made from wood and brick with bad heating and threadbare furniture. The richness of the Capitol, not for the first time, stood in such contrast to how little everyone else had. 

The inside of the car in which they were being transported in stood as an example. The inside was done in rich, dark leather. The interior was all white and chrome with flashing blue displays and the quiet humming of the motor. It was so modern, so actively moving and energetic that it almost seemed like it was alive. Not alive in a traditional sense, though. Alive in a sort of controlled way, in a false life that seemed pretty standard for most things in the Capitol. 

John was running his fingers over the shiny leather and chrome, his eyes wide and wondrous. His small, slightly dirty fingers left tiny stains on the soft leather. 

Clara shot Greg a look, then glanced at John briefly, before returning to look out the window. 

‘It’s really pretty,’ said John, quietly, a moment later. Greg looked down at John, tucked against his side. 

‘It is, I guess,’ Greg shrugged. The beauty of the place had long since left him behind. Seeing it through John’s innocent, fresh eyes was almost refreshing. Almost. 

‘Where are we going?’ asked John, turning to look up at Greg with wide eyes. 

‘I’m not sure,’ replied Greg. ‘Clara?’ 

‘We’re going to the Tribute tower,’ she replied. ‘It’s where you’ll be staying until the Tour.’ 

Greg inclined his head, looking down at his hands clasped in his lap. ‘There you go,’ he murmured, quietly. 

He was of course less than delighted to be going back there. It was too much like… before. 

Going to the Tribute tower, a younger person he had to take care of by his side, being traipsed in through the doors while people looked on in curiosity. Already their car was garnering looks, and back at the station he hadn’t missed the cameras and the Capitol residents looking on him in curiosity just like vultures looming over their next feast. 

It was unsettling. 

‘Greg,’ said Dimmock, his voice commanding attention despite the slur of alcohol. ‘Are you ready for Flickerman’s show tonight?’ 

‘I don’t know how I can be ready,’ Greg replied, honestly. ‘Just go in there, answer his questions, get out.’ 

Dimmock shook his head. ‘No, it’s not as simple as that, Greg. It can’t be. You have to know what you’re going to—‘ 

‘—enough!’ snapped Greg, fatigue suddenly consuming him. ‘I don’t want to talk about it right now.’ 

He never had been one to protect John particularly from the harshest parts of the world, the seedy underbelly of lies and deceit. He’d always thought it best that John knew what he was getting himself into beforehand. But this sort of discussion - a discussion of who Greg was supposed to be… 

He didn’t know what it was. He’d always fought so hard to get John to trust him, to get John to believe in him. To get John to trust him enough to rely on him, that this just felt like too much. 

‘Alright?’ Greg asked John, gently touching the younger’s shoulder. John looked up at him, nervously. 

‘I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘Why do you have to go on the tele screen tonight?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ sighed Greg, smiling. ‘People enjoy seeing my face, for some reason.’ 

‘What, your ugly mug?’ John questioned, a teasing smile spreading across that small face, dimpling tan skin. 

Greg nudged John, teasing. ‘How could you?’ he asked, mocking offended. ‘I will have you know I’m a beauty of the highest order!’ 

‘Sure, and cows fly,’ snorted John. 

Greg rolled his eyes, pinching John, who let out a low yelp and shuffled away from Greg as much as he could. Rolling his eyes, Greg grinned. 

Clara and Calypso, across from him, were laughing quietly into their hands, their eyes sparkling. Dimmock, on the other hand, was sending meaningful looks in Greg’s direction, his eyes dark, his brows low over his face. 

_That, _he seemed to say. _That is who you need to be._

Greg wanted to reply with defiance. He wanted to reply that that _was _who he was. It was who he had always been. He’d always just been taking care of John, playing around with John. Caring for John, and for everyone else. 

That had been what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. 

He didn’t know what would have happened, though, had it not been him. 

There was no point in speculating about it. 

Turning his head to look back out the window of the car, he could see that the Tribute tower was getting closer. It loomed up in the horizon, a familiar figure even after all this time. 

Overhead, a hovercraft was floating like an ominous cloud, sitting right over the tower. It loomed, casting a shadow over the shimmering peak of the Tribute tower, as if waiting for them to come closer. 

Greg looked away. 

***

As soon as they got inside and settled, John set up in Suzie’s old room, the sight of it gut-wrenching, Dimmock pulled Greg aside. The older Victor slammed the door of Greg’s room shut behind them, before dragging a chair to sit in front of the lounge. 

With a sigh, Dimmock dumped himself into the chair, then waited. 

Greg knew what he was meant to do. He knew he was meant to sit down, he knew he was meant to listen to Dimmock while Dimmock spoke. While Dimmock postured that he always knew better. 

He found he deeply didn’t want to. 

Sighing, gritting his teeth, Greg also threw himself down across from Dimmock. He refused to grant the older man the victory of his gaze, instead casting his eyes to look out the window. 

‘Lestrade, you need to pay attention,’ Dimmock snapped, his voice also somehow fatigued by the whole ordeal. 

Greg cast the other Victor a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. Dimmock had his hand covering his eyes, rubbing deeply into his eyeballs in a way that looked almost painful. 

Suddenly, Greg had a moment of painful empathy with the other Victor. 

Dimmock was a broken, messy man. Greg had always known that. Greg had seen him down in the market before, drunk out of his mind, leaning against the rickety wall and watching children run past. He had always felt a fleeting moment of pity for the man, gazing out over the children that may one day become sacrificial lambs for the Capitol’s enjoyment. 

He had always pitied that. 

But now… as a Victor… there was something else. A deep frustration with the life they were leading, a deep frustration with the cycle. Being put on show for the Capitol constantly. 

That was one thing Greg never seemed to be able to forget. Victors were always Victors. They never got to stop. They never got to be left alone, in the greatest cruelty of all. 

By the end, Greg had heard, Victors found such release in death. It was almost a joy for them. 

The guilt that he’d lived with for so long. Him getting to live where Suzie had to die. Where all those other Tributes had to die. Where _Mycroft, _perhaps more deserving and able to make more use out of the life of a Victor, had to die.

Of course, that last one wasn’t true. Not anymore. 

‘Lestrade, you gotta get your story straight,’ Dimmock said, suddenly, looking up from his hand and fixing Greg with a baleful stare. ‘Who are you?’ 

‘The Silver Knight,’ murmured Greg. ‘That’s who they want me to be, yeah?’ 

‘More than that,’ replied Dimmock, holding up a hand. ‘You need to be brave, and kind. All those things you are with John, you need to do for everyone else in the Capitol. You need to be fun. Playful. But you also need to be deeply grieving. You need to be so, deeply sad that they believe it, yet you also must be braving the sadness.’ 

‘I’m not sad,’ said Greg, shaking his head. ‘I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are,’ Dimmock replied, holding up a finger. ‘Mycroft Holmes, the love of your life, is dead.’ 

‘He’s not dead.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Dimmock, staring at Greg, his eyes deeply meaningful, ‘He is.’ 

‘But—‘ 

‘—No.’ said Dimmock. ‘You need to pretend like you know he is dead. You need to reassure everyone you think he is dead. You need to make Magnussen believe he is dead. You need to make him believe that it’s just a technical parlour trick, his whole scheme, that it’s something the Resistance constructed.’ 

‘I can’t do that,’ Greg whispered, ‘You don’t understand, Dimmock, I can’t go back to believing he’s dead.’ 

‘Too fuckin’ bad, Lestrade,’ Dimmock shot back. ‘You need to be kind, for fuck’s sake. Kinder than anyone else has ever been to you.’ 

‘I am kind,’ said Greg. ‘Or, at least, I try to be.’ 

‘Exactly. That, exactly,’ Dimmock held up a finger. ‘That sort of wide-eyed sincerity, oh, gets them every time.’ 

‘This isn’t me acting!’ Greg burst out. 

‘But you need to dial it up to eleven,’ said Dimmock. ‘These people, they have this vision of you in their minds. The Games has always been this dehumanising process. It turns people from the Districts into barbarians because that’s more palatable for the people in the Capitol. It’s this “us vs. them mentality.”

‘But you… you are more refined. You represent what they like to think of as _themselves. _They like to think of themselves as brave, kind and selfless. You are the Silver Knight, slaying all the barbarians from the poor Districts, lesser and more stupid than these painted up dolls feel they are.’ 

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Greg replied. ‘And I’m not a symbol of the Capitol. I’m a symbol of the Resistance, even though I never asked to be.’ 

‘Yes, but this isn’t about the Resistance right now. It’s about you surviving. Do you understand the situation you’re in? Do you understand how precarious it is?’ 

‘I know, Dimmock,’ Greg snapped. ‘But if there is a Resistance, if I can help it in some way, then I want to! I don’t just wanna go on camera and pretend to be a mindless drone for the Capitol!’ 

‘The way you can help the Resistance is by staying alive until Mycroft can get us out of here,’ replied Dimmock, his voice sharp around the edges. ‘Think about this from Magnussen’s point of view. Right now, you represent an opportunity to him. A risk, yes, but for a greater reward. He has you now, closeted away into a safe little hole where he can keep you and make you a symbol of the Capitol, by shoving you on the Network and making you a pretty little puppet.

‘But the moment he thinks you’re not cooperating, the moment he thinks there’s more risk there than reward, then he will get rid of you. Permanently.

‘So you wanna help the Resistance? Make me believe Mycroft is dead. Make Magnussen believe that for all you know, Mycroft is dead. That’s what was said on the Network after the transmission last night, anyway. They told us that Mycroft Holmes is dead.

‘If it looks like you think he’s alive, then you immediately become a threat. The Districts are looking to you, Greg. That shit’s powerful.’ 

‘I thought you said he couldn’t hurt me,’ said Greg, staring intently at Dimmock. ‘I thought you said he couldn’t afford it!’ 

‘He can’t,’ Dimmock replied. ‘Not right now. But he can kill you in subtler ways. Have you stabbed by someone out in the Districts. Suddenly you’re a martyr to the Capitol’s cause. 

‘You need to prove to him, with this interview tonight, that you’re more valuable to him alive than dead.’ 

Greg breathed in sharply through his nose. ‘I don’t… I don’t know if I can do that.’ 

‘You can,’ said Dimmock. ‘I know you can, because I’ve seen you do it before.’ 

‘That was just me,’ Greg murmured, quietly. 

Dimmock got to his feet, folding his hands behind his back and beginning to pace back and forth. ‘Clara has got an outfit planned for you for tonight.’ 

‘Do you know what’s going on with the Resistance?’ asked Greg, his voice quiet. ‘Do you know where Mycroft is?’ 

‘No,’ replied Dimmock, immediately. ‘I don’t know where he is, I don’t know anything about the Resistance. I only know what your father—‘ 

Immediately, he stopped talking, looking around the room with narrowed eyes. Greg peered at Dimmock, carefully. ‘What about my father?’ 

‘Nothing,’ Dimmock said, waving it away with a hand. ‘I didn’t say anything about your father.’ 

‘Yes, you did, you just said—‘

Greg was interrupted by a knock on the door. The door was then slid open, immediately, by a Peacekeeper dressed all in white. The beetle-like carapace the Peacekeeper wore was cut through with grey ridges, far more ridges than Greg had ever seen on a Peacekeeper before. On his shoulder the Peacekeeper had small, golden spirals. 

The helmet the Peacekeeper wore was flat and expressionless, and as he looked into the room he seemed to peer at each of the occupants in turn, a soft hissing emitting from the seam where the helmet met the rest of the outfit. At his side hung a nasty-looking gun-like weapon that Greg had seen before on the higher-ranking Peacekeepers. 

He knew it could kill a wayward cow with a single bolt. 

He also knew it could kill a human with a single shot. 

Once, he had seen it happen. Down in the market, where goods were sold on the sly, he remembered a raid from a few years ago. One of the women in the corner, an old woman with grizzled features and pocked skin had stood in front of her tiny stall defiantly, while the Peacekeepers had tried to take her meagre produce from her on accusation she hadn’t paid her taxes. She had refused to move, this old, shaking crone. 

She had stood there, defiant, against all askance to move, all orders to move, until the leading Peacekeeper with grey ridges up and down his back, and all up his arms had drawn from his side a weapon just like that. He had raised it, and with a nasty, yet somehow gleeful look he had pulled the trigger. 

It had gone off with a low, sonic thump, and then she was toppling to the floor, her body an empty husk. The Peacekeepers had then boxed up all the produce, and taken it with them, hauling it on the backs of a blank faced, tongueless slave. 

‘What is it?’ asked Dimmock, looking at the Peacekeeper with what could almost be called disdain. 

‘President Magnussen is here to see Gregory Lestrade,’ said an almost robotic voice, issuing from the Peacekeeper’s mask. 

Greg immediately felt his stomach swoop, as Dimmock turned to him, wide-eyed. ‘Now?’ asked Dimmock, still looking at Greg. ‘We have much to prepare, Peacekeeper. Lestrade is to appear on the Network this evening, you know.’ 

‘Now,’ said the Peacekeeper, before standing aside and holding the door open expectantly. 

Greg got to his feet, and cast a look at Dimmock, desperately. Dimmock didn’t say anything, even as Greg stepped up to the door. Only when he was about to pass through did Dimmock shoot out a hand, grasping him tightly around his upper arm. Dimmock’s hand was like a claw, digging into Greg’s flesh deeply and hanging there for a moment, forcing Greg to look at him. 

Dimmock’s eyes were narrowed, glaring at Greg. Willing him to act a certain way. 

Greg got the message, inclining his head. Immediately, Dimmock let go, allowing Greg to step through the door. The Peacekeeper took ahold of Greg’s upper arm, then, tugging him away and allowing the door to slam shut behind him in Dimmock’s face. 

The Peacekeeper led him through the hall, past John’s closed door, and through the lounge past Clara and Calypso, who watched him go with silent, watchful eyes. He was led over to the concrete staircase that led up to the roof, and he suddenly realised where he was being taken. 

Tugged through the door, he stumbled up the stairs to the top. The door at the top was standing entirely open, and for a moment, the sunlight on Greg’s face was almost comforting. The Peacekeeper let him go, then, and gestured further into the rooftop garden. ‘President Magnussen is waiting for you,’ said the white Peacekeeper, before falling silent. Statuesque, the Peacekeeper didn’t move any further, just standing in front of the garden, preventing his escape. 

Greg cast one last look at the Peacekeeper, before hesitantly stepping further into the garden. 

He could see President Magnussen’s tall, almost crane-like frame from the distance. Greg closed his eyes. He had only a moment, he knew it. But he had to draw on something. 

There was no telling what Magnussen would want with him. He had no idea what Magnussen was going to say to him. So Greg took a moment to breathe in the soft scents of the flowers and plants around him, a moment to soak in the place where he met Mycroft for the first time. 

That was perhaps his strongest source of comfort and strength for what was to come. His memory of Mycroft, of Mycroft’s strength and charisma. He was going to have to play a part, just as Dimmock said. 

To help Mycroft. 

Taking another deep breath, Greg stepped further into the garden. He walked down the familiar path through the small, well-groomed trees and past the beds of flowers towards the edge of the roof, where Magnussen was standing, framed by the setting sun. 

Then, it jolted Greg. 

Magnussen had placed himself exactly where Mycroft had been, that first time. Standing there, framed by the setting sun, the rising, shining spires of the Capitol jutting into the sky around his figure. He even wore something similar to what Mycroft had worn, that first time. A three piece suit, done in black fabric with no patterning. 

Magnussen knew. He had to. 

The President turned then, catching sight of Greg, his face falling into shadow as he stared at Greg with those dead, shark-like eyes. He peered out from behind strangely delicate glasses with wiry frames, his beard well trimmed yet mousy, somehow. Greg had to stop, for a moment. Had to catch his breath. 

Enough. 

Greg forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, to force himself towards the tableau. The scent of rotting fish wafted over him as he stepped even closer, hidden over with the sickening veneer of flowers. 

Greg couldn’t take any more steps forwards. He stopped, about three metres from the edge of the roof, and waited. 

‘Good evening,’ said Magnussen, a small smile creasing the old man’s features. ‘Mr Lestrade.’ 

‘President Magnussen,’ Greg said, forcing a smile from his tired features. ‘It’s an honour.’ 

Magnussen let out a low, humourless chuckle. His eyes were evaluating, but not in the same way Mycroft’s had been. Mycroft’s eyes were penetrating, yes. It felt like he was seeing your darkest secrets, yes. But this was entirely different in that it felt like just by looking at him Magnussen was peering into a folder about his life and pulling out his darkest moments, his weakest points in those long, pointy fingers and running his hands all over them. It was intrusive, where Mycroft felt natural. At least, to him. 

A moment later, Magnussen pulled something from his pocket. Greg flinched, and Magnussen paused, for a moment, his eyes sharp and piercing. Then, he slowly pulled it further out of his coat. It lit up, in blue, projecting an image into the air. 

Himself and Mycroft sharing a kiss, on one of their last nights together, high atop the fallen skyscraper in the old city. The ocean beneath them was frothing and writhing, the sky behind them brilliant orange. Greg remembered the moment well. 

How violating it felt, it struck Greg suddenly. To know this shark-like man with his pointy features and long, thin fingers and piercing gaze had watched this scene. Likely over, and over again like a perverted old man from the stories. 

Greg watched as Mycroft pulled back, stroked a hand over his face. A phantom sensation followed the visual, a tingling along his cheek from those familiar, graceful fingers. 

The scene was entirely muted, of course, but Greg could remember what Mycroft said. Everything Mycroft had said to him was burned into his mind, as if he never could forget it. Yet, at the same time, there were some things he was forgetting. The exact shape of Mycroft’s fingernails. The exact shade of Mycroft’s hair. 

He was almost thankful for the reminder, really, as those tiny details came seeping back. The exact shade of ginger, copper, gold and brown that wove through Mycroft’s hair like a tapestry of brilliant metal threads shone through the screen, even through the tint of blue. The way the shadows of the sunset played over Mycroft’s face. 

It gave him enough strength to look back at Magnussen with his own gaze, pin the President in place with a stare, a challenge. 

‘Such fire,’ murmured the President, his voice oily and slick. ‘Such passion. Such spirit. Such… contempt.’ 

Greg took in a sharp breath, trying not to let it show on his face. It was a struggle to keep his real emotions from his face, keep it steady in a small, pleasant, charming smile. His thoughts burned in his throat like magma. 

‘I cared for Mycroft very deeply,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘I was in love with him.’ 

‘Indeed you were, it seems,’ said Magnussen, softly. ‘Your perfect pressure point. But, you do have _so _very many. That little boy; John. Your _friends. _Mycroft Holmes, a boy you had only known for a month.’ 

‘There’s a story,’ replied Greg, smoothly, ‘Back where I come from. A story about a prince and a knight who fell in love. Love at first sight, as the story goes. The prince looked at the knight, and the knight looked at the prince. That’s all that’s needed for their love.’ 

‘A lovely fairytale,’ chuckled Magnussen. ‘But a fairytale nonetheless.’ 

‘It was enough for the people in the Capitol, I reckon.’ 

Magnussen didn’t respond, just tucked the device away back in his pocket. Then, with a gesture, he directed Greg towards a nearby bench that had sprouted from nowhere. ‘Please,’ he asked, his voice smooth. ‘Sit.’ 

Taking a deep breath, again, and clenching his stomach to prevent he reflexive gag that wanted to sprout up, Greg followed the order. He sat, and beside him Magnussen did the same. His slimy hands folded neatly on his lap, as he gazed out over the sunset on the Capitol. Greg didn’t take his eyes from the other man. 

‘And what a joy it must be,’ said Magnussen, a moment later. ‘To see that your beloved is alive once more.’ 

Magnussen then looked at Greg, his gaze penetrating. Greg breathed, shallowly. He didn’t want to lie. He wanted to scream it from the rooftops here in the Capitol, in the shining glass city. He wanted to scream his frustration. _‘Mycroft is alive,’_ he wanted to scream. _‘Mycroft is alive and he is coming for you. He is coming for all of you just like he came for all those Tributes in the Arena. Like he came for me.’_

‘Mycroft's dead,’ said Greg, instead, shrugging as casually as he could. ‘I felt him die in my hands. I hate it. I would give the world to have him back. But that’s not how the world works, President Magnussen.’ 

‘I could not have said it better myself,’ said Magnussen, smiling widely, his teeth pointed like a shark’s. ‘And what a cruel trick it was that the horrid Resistance has played on you. A horrid trick to revive a fallen beloved hero for all. A torturous and horrible experience for you, surely.’ 

Greg had to bite back a gag. ‘Yes,’ he said, a moment later. 

‘Good,’ murmured Magnussen. Then, with a jolting movement, Magnussen got to his feet, he tucked his hands behind his back, his smile wide and teeth sharp. The smell of fish suddenly became overpowering, as the sun began to finally set and long shadows crept across the garden like dark tendrils of fingers. ‘Now, convince _me.’ _

With that, Magnussen strode off into the garden. 

Greg let out a great breath, dropping his head into his hands. A powerful urge to sob nearly overcame him, but just as he had swallowed the gag, he swallowed this too. 

He didn’t know if he could do this.

Since Mycroft’s broadcast, all he had felt was consumed by Mycroft. Mycroft, surrounding him once more in the air that he breathed and the scents he smelled. Everything else he felt; anger, betrayal, joy, elation. It all had to do with Mycroft. 

But now… now. 

He had to push it away, shut it all out into a tiny box in the corner of his mind and regain that state he had before. Mycroft was dead. 

Mycroft was dead and he wasn’t coming back. 

‘Greg?’ 

Clara’s soft voice was accompanied by her gentle hand on his shoulder. Her small body thumped to the seat beside Greg, her gentle, floral scent washing over him. ‘Clara,’ Greg whispered. ‘I dunno if I can do this.’ 

‘You can,’ she replied. ‘I know you can, Silver Knight.’ 

‘Don’t… don’t call me that.’ 

‘But Greg, don’t you see? You should be proud of who you are. You were called that by people not just in the Capitol but by people in the Districts as well. 

‘While you’re here, while you’re trapped, you have to be who the Capitol wants you to be. But that’s just the surface. You are the Silver Knight of the Districts, Greg. The Silver Knight of the stories. 

‘You’re brave, and kind, and selfless. You care so much about everyone else that you nearly died to save them. And now here you are again. Trying to save everyone else. 

‘If you weren’t the Silver Knight, you would’ve run away with your friends. But you didn’t. You chose to stay, to buy them time.’ 

‘Do you think it worked?’ asked Greg, his voice small. ‘Do you reckon they got away?’ 

Clara didn’t reply, just stroked a hand over Greg’s back. Greg peeked at her, from between his fingers. ‘Clara, I want you to know something,’ Greg said, softly. ‘He’s alive. Mycroft’s alive. No matter what I say on the tele screen tonight, he’s alive. He has to be.’ 

‘Oh, Greg,’ whispered Clara, her hand stilling on Greg’s back. 

‘Mycroft’s alive.’ 

***

Fiddling with eh sleeves of the clothes he wore, Greg examined himself in the mirror in the little waiting area head been shown to. He wore another of Clara’s creations, a softer look this time. There was still the shining metal strands woven through his outfit, shimmering and shifting like chain mail. Shimmering metal plates hung from his hips, down the sides of his trousers like scales, and on his shoulders were small epaulets with tiny swords shimmering on top of them.

A brooch was also sitting on his lapel, a small circle with a chain attaching to a sword piercing straight through the centre of it. His eyes had been done in a slight black liner, and a flash of silvery shadow smeared over his lids. 

‘Are you ready, Greg?’ asked Calypso, fluttering around him, waving her hands over his outfit gently. 

‘Always,’ Greg replied, with a smile, and reaching out to grasp one of her hands, he patted it soothingly. She reminded him of a butterfly, a fluttering, delicate thing with dew on her wings. ‘Don’t worry about me.’ 

‘I do anyway,’ she sighed. ‘I’m just so nervous!’ 

Greg looked down, and chuckled, before looking back up, and shuffling his feet from side to side. ‘I remember all the stuff you taught me,’ he placated, ‘The first time around, remember?’ 

‘Of course,’ she fluttered, ‘Of course, dear, how could I forget!’ 

Greg grinned. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a silver pin on her own shoulder, glinting in the light as she fluttered over him, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulders. ‘What’s that?’ asked Greg, pointing at the brooch. 

Just like his own it was a small circle, pierced through by a sword. The Silver Knight’s symbol. Calypso froze for a moment, before looking at her own lapel and brushing a long fingers hand over it, her claw-like nails tapping on the metal. ‘This? Oh, it’s just something Clara’s made for all of us. She made one for me, and for Dimmock, and for herself. Oh, and for little John, of course.’ 

‘Of course,’ Greg nodded, mildly. 

It was comforting, really. All these small little comforts Clara had worked into the world around him. Made Calypso one, as she would be the last person he would get to see before the interview. Just so he could have a little reminder of what she had said to him on the roof. 

He had to be brave, now. He had to take a deep breath and do what was needed of him. It was as simple as that. 

‘We’re ready for you, Mr Lestrade,’ said an attendant, her voice soft yet commanding. She, like all the other Capitol residents, had on an immense wig that puffed around her head like a small cloud, done in a shade of eye-watering electric blue. But her face was sharp, pointy, in a way that really contrasted with what she wore. 

In her small, gloved hands, she held a device that was flashing blue and orange. With one hand, she gestured to a door, which slid open into darkness. Through it, Greg could hear the sound of cheering voices, familiar to him from the last time he had to do this. 

Beside him, Calypso fluttered her hands over his shoulders once more, brushing away more of the dust only she could see. ‘Greg, you can do this!’ she exclaimed, tapping him on the back. ‘You’re going to be fabulous, dear.’ 

Unable to respond for the butterflies fluttering in his belly, Greg swallowed and nodded, sharply, before taking those last few steps up into darkness. Behind him, he could hear Calypso fluttering about, asking questions of the woman with the blue hair. 

Greg tuned it out, closed his eyes briefly once, took in a breath, and stepped through. 

Immediately he stepped out onto the glass steps beneath a stage. The cheering grew louder as they caught sight of him, and he could hear frantic screaming of his name from the cloud-headed women, and even some of the men. One in particular who caught his eye had flaming red hair teased up around his head to look like fire. His lips were coated in red paint, and he was screaming, hysterically. 

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ roared Caesar’s voice, ‘The Silver Knight of District Ten and the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games - Gregory Lestrade!’ 

On the stage, Caesar gestured to Greg, and Greg followed suit, stepping up the glass steps and waving to the audience, plastering a smile on his face as he made for the chair across from the purple-haired this time host. Flickerman was gesturing wildly, as if conducting the applause from his manic audience, before he reached out and clapped a hand on Greg’s back. 

Greg continued to smile and wave, ducking his head and grinning as charmingly as he could. 

‘Gregory Lestrade!’ repeated Caesar. 

Slowly, the audience frenzy began to die down, and the people all began to take their seats once more. A few more whistles and claps remained, before slowly dying back down to a low rumble.

‘Well!’ began Caesar. ‘Well, well, well, well. Oh,’ he sighed out, ‘Where are my manners. Please, take a seat.’ 

With a gesture, Caesar directed him to the lounge across from himself. Taking a seat, Greg tucked the tails of his suit in beneath him, the metal plates rattling slightly. 

‘So,’ began Caesar. ‘It has been a while since we’ve last caught up, hasn’t it, Greg my man?’ 

‘Five months,’ nodded Greg, grinning as charmingly as he could and running a gloved hand through his silver hair. 

‘And how have you been, my Silver Knight?’ 

‘Well,’ said Greg, ‘I’ve been living life, you know, as you do.’ 

‘And… well… Mycroft?’ asked Caesar, carefully. 

‘I mourn him every day,’ replied Greg, shrugging. ‘But, of course, I can’t spend too long on it. Things to do, people to take care of, you know how it is.’ 

‘How brave,’ sighed Caesar, again. ‘What do we think, ladies and gents? Isn’t he brave?’ 

Another rumbling cheer rose from the audience. Greg wanted to be ill, not for the first time that day. 

‘Now, I hear through the grapevine that a certain little boy came with you this time to the Capitol,’ said Caesar, smiling widely, his perfectly white teeth shining in the spotlights. 

‘He did,’ replied Greg. ‘He couldn’t bear to be left behind. And, of course, he wanted to see the amazing Capitol for himself. My son, John, is in the audience at the moment, actually.’ 

‘Really?’ asked Caesar, ‘Is he now? Well, let’s see if we can find him!’ 

With a sweeping gesture, Caesar directed their attention to the screen behind them. The camera panned over the audience, before zooming in on John, his blond hair glinting in the sudden spotlight that was cast over him. John shyly waved, to ecstatic applause from the audience, fiddling with the sleeves of the tiny suit he wore. On his lapel, just like on the lapels of Clara and Dimmock either side of him, shone the little circle of metal with the sword straight through the centre. 

‘Your son is looking quite handsome tonight!’ Caesar exclaimed. Greg grinned. John was looking handsome. He was looking rested, and well-fed, which despite the spoils of his victory had been something that John had still been struggling with. 

But tonight there was a healthy flush to his cheeks, and an adorable roundness that Clara had clearly injected. His blond hair was patted down with product, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable, gazing around shyly, and waving with a tiny hand, before looking back up at Greg with wide, blue, imploring eyes. 

Greg wanted nothing more than to sweep him up into his arms. 

_Hang in there, little soldier, _Greg tried to say, smiling gently at John and tapping his hand against the brooch on his lapel. John mirrored the action, reaching up and gently stroking over the little metal pin. 

Beside him, Caesar sighed, jolting Greg out of his reverie once more.

‘Enchanting,’ the host declared. ‘Just enchanting! Fabulous!’ 

Greg looked down at his hands, ruffling his hair with practiced ease, before smiling with as much charm as he could muster. How hard it was.

‘But, I think we need to talk about something else very important this evening,’ said Caesar. ‘That hullabaloo last night, of course. The Network in complete disarray, don’t you think?’ 

‘Quite a mess,’ said Greg, grinning. 

‘Was it painful?’ asked Caesar. Greg felt bile rise in his throat. ‘Oh, it is just terrible, isn’t it? All the pain you went through.’ 

Greg tired his best to portray noble suffering. Sighing, he rested a hand over his other one, and cast his eyes to the floor, before looking up again and shaking his head. ‘The image of the man I loved, used so cruelly,’ murmured Greg. ‘I can’t believe it, really.’ 

‘So Mycroft Holmes _is dead,’ _encouraged Caesar, his eyes narrowed. 

‘Mycroft died in my arms,’ whispered Greg, his eyes filling with tears. They weren’t fake. The tears weren’t a lie. 

They stung behind his eyes, burned his tear ducts and throbbed in his temples as they pooled on his cheeks. ‘He died in my arms, and I shall never get him back as long as I live. To use his face so cruelly, it broke my heart.’ 

The audience sighed. Caesar himself swooned, and clutched at his breast. ‘Such passion,’ the host gasped. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, like we’ve never seen before.’ 

Greg dropped his head to look at the floor, and allowed a flicker of everything to pass over his face. Anger, confusion, sorrow, a touch of joy like the ringing of a bell after a rainfall. Frustration. Terror, like the creeping tendrils of shadowy fingers, scraping over his skull, as the rumbling of the audience around him thundered through his head. 


	7. Gladiator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back everyone :) Hope you all had a good week!
> 
> I'm just putting a note at the start of this to say that there is a lot of gore in this chapter. It's supposed to be vaguely based on the gladiator battles of ancient Rome, which is also coincidentally somewhat what the Capitol itself is based upon. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it, and I'll see you next Sunday chickens :)
> 
> TH

By the time Sally got back to the hangar with the tent city after meeting Anthea, people were piled atop their beds, snoring quietly. Fires had been banked down just to simmering coals, and the dim overhead floodlights had been switched off entirely. Some people were still up, of course. In one corner, Sally could see a group of older men, some dressed in tunics, some in the carapaces of the soldiers, and some just in normal clothes gathered around a low crate. A small lamp had been set up, casting a pool of liquid light around them like a tiny oasis in the dark. 

Sally could hear their laughter even from across the room, see the shining of small coins stacked up in between them, falling into the gaps in the wooden box.

Picking her way between the low beds and sleeping figures huddled under blankets, she stepped past children and the elderly alike, all sleeping. Safe, here, in this tiny little piece of freedom. 

Nearby, Sally also saw a group of young women, all gathered around a tiny blue tele screen. There was something playing on it, a tiny, purple-haired figure and a fake laugh that she immediately recognised as Caesar Flickerman. 

Sally felt something angry, twisting in her gut. She threw her gaze away, looking over to where she was headed, instead. 

Across the room, in their corner, Maya was sitting up in her bed, her legs crossed, as she read a small book that someone must have given her. Across the circle from her, Molly was fiddling with some clothes belonging to Charlotte and Sam, stitching small rips and tears that had been torn in during their flight through the forest. 

As Sally drew nearer she could see that Molly wasn’t doing the best of stitches, slightly off-centre and veering slightly around the small holes. Maya cast her a look as she approached, smiling, before looking back down at her book, her long legs folded up gracefully beneath her. 

The pile of armour that Sally had been handed was thick and metallic, clanging against the floor even when she placed it gently. The interlocking bits of black metal carapace clinked together like cutlery, sitting on the floor in a heap next to her rickety bed frame. 

Maya looked between it and Sally, before gazing back down at it. ‘So you’re going to join them? The Resistance soldiers, I mean.’ 

Sally nodded her head, sharply, sitting down on her bed with a sigh. ‘I have to, Maya. This is my chance, don’t you see? It’s my chance to help the cause. Really help it, not just shout angry words into the void.’ 

Maya smiled. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ 

‘What about you?’ asked Sally, looking at her. 

‘I’m not sure what to do,’ Maya replied. 

‘I know what I want to do,’ said Molly, suddenly, chiming in from across the circle. Sally looked over her shoulder at the other girl, her hair mousy and thin, full of leaves from their fleeing through the forest. 

‘What?’ asked Maya, leaning around Sally to look at Molly, her eyes wide. 

‘There’s a medical bay here. Mycroft told me about it,’ she said. ‘I know a bit about medicine. How to help people when they’ve got cuts and bruises, that kind of thing. I want to help there.’ 

Sally grinned at her, flicking strands of bushy hair out of her eyes. ‘That’s great, Molls,’ she said, leaning over to grasp Molly’s hand and squeeze, tightly. ‘You’ll be great.’ 

Molly smiled back, leaning on her knee. ‘So you’re going to join the Resistance soldiers. Greg would be proud.’ 

‘I don’t know about that,’ murmured Sally, looking down at her feet. ‘I just think it’s the best way to help.’ 

The mention of Greg had gotten to her. In the excitement of the last few hours she had managed to put it from her mind. But there it was again, springing back up, an unwanted reminder that Greg, her brother in all but blood, was out there somewhere. Was probably in the Capitol, by now, all dolled up and paraded for the pleasure of the slimy President. 

Maya’s hand on Sally’s shoulder jolted her out of the contemplative reverie she had dropped into, for a moment. Her small hand stroked gently up Sally’s neck, even as her small body dropped onto the thin mattress beside her. Leaning against her, Maya pressed a kiss to her clothed shoulder. 

‘I miss him too, Sal,’ she murmured.

Molly was looking down at her hands, abashedly, her bottom lip caught in her teeth. ‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Molly. ‘I just wish he was here with us now. He could’ve… he could’ve come with us. He would be _safe_, then.’ 

Sally bowed her head. ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘But we can help. We can help him, by helping the Resistance. By helping Mycroft.’ 

Maya nodded, smiling. ‘Well, Mycroft did say that they need help with the funding for this place. I did listen to my dad from time to time. Maybe I can help with that.’ 

‘Maybe,’ said Sally, rubbing her hand. ‘Are you sure though? I know you don’t really like money.’ 

‘I want to help. If this is how I can help, then it’s better I do that than nothing.’ Sally grinned at her. 

‘We can help. I know we can,’ she nodded. 

‘Sally?’ a small voice said, behind her. 

Sally looked over her shoulder to see that Alex was standing there, having crawled out of his bed, wearing his large blanket as a cloak, wrapped over his shoulders. His small hands were clinging to the blanket as hard as he could, his eyes wide. 

‘Are you alright?’ asked Sally, ‘What’s wrong, Al?’ 

Alex shook his head, crawling up beside Sally and tucking his face into her shoulder. He swept the blanket around himself, as if he could roll himself up inside it. Sally smiled, affectionately, wrapping an arm around him, as the younger boy began to doze, a soft snoring sound emanating from the tiny little breathing hole he’d allowed himself. 

‘Molls,’ murmured Sally, a moment later, ‘Where’s your mum? Don’t you reckon she’s worried about you?’ 

Molly sighed, setting aside the stitching. ‘I didn’t tell you,’ she replied, softly, ‘I didn’t want to worry you. When I left last night to come to Greg’s, I don’t know where she was. She had gone off somewhere, left me with Sam.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Sally. ‘But… she did come back, last time she did that.’ 

‘Not for a year,’ replied Molly. ‘I’ve given up on her, I think. I’ve spent just… too long trying to convince Sam that one day, maybe, she’ll be okay again. I think it’s time just to give up. She’s not going to ever be the mum he needs, so I have to be. It’s as simple as that. And this… coming with you… it’s the right decision. I don’t have to worry about him being Reaped, while we’re here. I don’t have to worry that _I’ll _be Reaped. I won’t ever have to worry about him being alone.’ 

There was silence, for a moment. Maya, quiet beside her, leaned deeper into Sally’s embrace, tucking her face tiredly into Sally’s neck. Sally rubbed a hand up her arm, squeezing Alex tightly against her, before pressing a gentle kiss to both their heads. ‘You never needed to worry,’ she murmured, after a moment of silence. ‘I hope you know that.’ 

‘Sally’s right. Greg would’ve taken care of Sam. We would’ve taken care of Sam. We will take care of Sam,’ Maya said, with conviction. 

The mention of Greg once again silenced them. It was hard to hear. Hard to think of, if the situation were different. 

‘I wish…. I wish at least John was here,’ said Molly, sadly, her stitching falling limp in her lap. ‘I wish he’d at least come with us.’ 

‘I know,’ Sally replied, bowing her head. ‘Stubborn little bugger. I don’t blame him though.’ Maya and Molly both hummed in agreement. ‘Don’t blame him for not wanting to be apart from Greg again. That was hard enough for him the first time. I don’t even wanna think about the second time.’ 

There was silence, for another moment. 

Then, a loud shout echoed over the room, from where the young women were sitting around their tiny tele screen, watching Caesar Flickerman. Footsteps started, and the sudden groaning of many people waking up, rubbing at their eyes and moaning as they were forced into wakefulness by the excited shouting of the young women, and the loud footsteps of a group of people, hurrying across the hangar. 

Sally looked up, surprised, as Alex stirred beside her and Maya got up on her knees to look over her head. All around them, stirring and whispering through the massive hangar; _‘The Silver Knight. Greg Lestrade, on Flickerman, the Silver Knight, the Silver Knight.’ _

Maya looked back at Sally, her eyes wild. ‘Greg!’ she exclaimed, grabbing Sally’s arm as hard as she could. ‘It’s Greg.’ 

Molly had also thrown aside the clothes, and gotten off the bed, getting to her feet and trying to peer over the heads of people, as everyone in the hangar crowded into little groups around tele screens. 

‘Sally!’ a deep, gravelly voice punctured the air, drawing Sally’s attention to the group of people loudly stepping towards them. A group of guards dressed all in black, in the midst of whom were three figures. Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the shadows of the dim hangar into the small pool of light around them, his eyes flashing a dark grey. 

Beside him, Anthea stood, her hair loose around her shoulders, and in her hand a small data pad projecting an image of Caesar Flickerman, his arms wide in welcome, greeting them with a smiling face, waving to a captive audience. 

On Mycroft’s other side was a small boy with a mass of black curls on his head, and clear-blue eyes, shimmering in the dim light. Sherlock, Mycroft’s younger brother. 

Sally looked back to Mycroft, gazing at him. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked him. ‘I heard that Greg was on Flickerman.’ 

Mycroft inclined his head. ‘The host just announced that their main piece tonight was going to be Gregory. An exclusive, Caesar called it.’ 

It was true. Sally could see with a quick glance that Caesar was gesturing to an image on the massive screens behind him, an image of Greg at the end of the Hunger Games, standing in the sun on top of the Clock Tower. 

It wasn’t real. It was obviously a faked image, an image of Greg artfully edited and transposed over a scene that had never actually happened. They had dolled him up, taken away the gaunt look he had at the end of the Games, taken away the blood splatters. It was like a spun glass figuring Sally had once seen in the market, ready to shatter in a split second. 

‘Let me see,’ she murmured, reaching for the data pad. 

‘Not here,’ replied Mycroft, holding out a hand before Anthea could pass it to her. The Great Tactician cast a glance around the hangar, drawing Sally to do the same. 

People were watching them, their eyes wide. They were whispering to themselves, whispering about Mycroft, about her, about the kids. 

‘Gather all your friends and your siblings,’ said Mycroft, ‘Come. I know a place we can go.’ 

Sally nodded, sharply, taking Maya’s hand and gently helping Alex out of his pile of blankets. Behind her, she could hear Molly gently shaking Lottie and Sam awake, gathering them to follow Mycroft back out of the hangar. 

‘Quickly,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘The transmission may not last long.’ 

***

Mycroft led them to a small but comfortable sitting area, higher up in the Silo. They were led up a secret set of stairs, past quiet meeting rooms and bustling halls filled with the night shift of guards. They were led through one of the glass tubes, and had they been more awake, Sally knew the children would have been curiously peering out, marvelling at the hovercraft that were stacked beneath them like bricks. 

But the children were tired. Sam was lolling about in Molly’s arms, his head loose and hanging on Molly’s shoulder. Lottie was stumbling along with her help; Sally had put her arm out and let Charlotte lean against it. 

Alex was still dragging his blanket behind him like a cape, rubbing at his eyes. 

Up ahead, Mycroft led them with purpose in his steps, his younger brother trying to imitate him with strides that looked almost too wide for his tiny body. Anthea was holding up the data pad, so they could all glance at the show from time to time, watching for any hint of Greg. 

They were led down another corridor before they reached the sitting area, where Mycroft ushered them all inside before shutting the door with a glance almost suspiciously around the hallway outside, despite it being deserted. He gestured for them all to take a seat, Sally helping both Charlotte and Alex up onto the lounge nearby, before taking a seat herself at Alex’s side. Immediately, her younger brother tucked into her arm, wrapping his smaller arms around it as if it were a teddy bear. 

At right angles to her, on the other lounge, Mycroft took a seat, his brother sitting a distance from him. Sherlock folded his legs underneath himself, curling into a small ball, while Mycroft leaned his elbows against his long legs, propping up his chin on his steepled fingers and staring intently at the screen with those flashing grey eyes. 

Anthea then set down the data pad, allowing it to stream light into the air, projecting an image of Caesar Flickerman in all his glory. For the first time, she turned the sound up, so the piped laughter of the audience could be heard. Caesar’s was the most deafening, his mouth spread wide and a laugh so fake spreading from his massive, pearly-white teeth it nearly made Sally feel nauseous. 

_‘…aren’t we, ladies and gentlemen? We’re very excited to have this particular guest on with us tonight!’_ His arms spread wide, Caesar turned, sharply, on his heel, the lights dimming dramatically to focus on him. 

_‘Well, ladies and gents, let me tell you, we were not sure we could get him tonight! Then, the President, in all his eminence, assured _me _personally, that we would.’ _With a grin, Caesar conducted the applause that followed, the cheers that a mention of the President garnered. 

‘_Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, the Silver Knight of District Ten and the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games - Gregory Lestrade!’ _The rumbling cheers started up again, pouring through Sally’s head and thundering through the room, even as Caesar spread his hand in a sweeping gesture. 

Sally fancied she could hear everyone in the room suck in a deep breath, aside from Mycroft, who seemed to stop breathing entirely, as the camera panned over to focus on Greg. 

Greg, who was breathtaking. 

A wide grin adorned his face, a smile Sally had barely ever seen the likes of before. In her head, she had dubbed it Greg’s Capitol smile. 

He shone in a silver suit with tiny metal threads woven through so it actually sparkled in the spotlights. It was cut exactly to his frame, showing the bulge of Greg’s biceps, not earned from working out, just from hard work. Silver hair, artfully tousled, glinted in the light as if it too were made of metal, and long plates of metal armour, almost like scales, adorned his suit in various places, most conspicuously hanging down from his hips. 

On his lapel, of course, he wore a brooch with a chain, in the shape of a circle with a sword piercing straight through it. The symbol of the Resistance. 

Sally glanced at Mycroft out of the corner of her eye, seeing that the tall Tactician was leaning forwards as far as he could, his mouth and jaw covered by his steepled fingers, but his eyes shining a deep grey in the light. His brows were furrowed in concentration, and as she watched, he blinked, gently, as if taking a reprieve from the sight before him. 

She turned back to the screen. 

For some reason, it felt like something perverted, watching Mycroft go through this. It felt like something she just shouldn’t be seeing. 

But that was the way with all the interactions she’d ever seen between Greg and his lover. Something so intensely private it made her burn for watching on. Made her feel so, so deeply _wrong _for being able to view it like she was. 

Sally refocused on the screen. 

Greg had been directed to a seat. Caesar was grinning, laughing and joking with Greg, who was more charming that Sally had seen in a while. So charming that it felt almost sickly sweet on her tongue, as he looked at his feet with charming abashment, ruffled his hair with careful artfulness. 

_‘And… well… Mycroft?’ _questioned Caesar, biting his lip and eyeing Greg carefully. 

Greg sighed, and looked at his feet, a moment of true sadness crossing his face, before he looked up, and with such an artful moment of charm, cast over his face a mask of noble suffering such that Sally almost couldn’t tell where Greg stopped and it began. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Maya shiver, and Mycroft freeze up even more than he was already frozen in place. 

_‘I mourn him every day. But, of course, I can’t spend too long on it. Things to do, people to take care of, you know how it is.’ _

Caesar replied something inane, and for a moment, Sally was struck with the true honesty of what Greg had just said. That was what he had been like, for the last five months of his life. Greg had been living, yes, but he hadn’t been alive. He’d been going through the motions, grieving at night, in the spaces between words and glances when he thought no-one could see him. 

Then, when someone was looking, when someone was asking, when someone _needed, _he would cast that Capitol smile over his face, hold out his hands, and offer himself wholeheartedly to anything that ever needed him. 

Suddenly, the topic of the conversation shifted. The camera panned across to catch a glimpse of John, high up in the audience, his blond hair shimmering in the sudden spotlights. He too was wearing a brooch, just like Greg on the stage. Beside him, a woman with long, dark hair and pretty features sat, also smiling, and also wearing a brooch. On his other side sat Dimmock, the man not smiling, his brows low over his square features, but also wearing a shining, metal brooch with a sword piercing straight through the centre. 

John waved, shyly, to the camera, before it panned away, back to the stage once more. Greg was still charming, still taking on all those little mannerisms Greg had always had, but dialled up for Capitol consumption, turned into something that, to Sally’s eyes, looked forced. 

_‘But, I think we need to talk about something else very important this evening. That hullabaloo last night, of course. The Network in complete disarray, don’t you think?’ _Sally heard the breath that Anthea sucked in, as did Maya and Molly beside her. 

She watched, as carefully, Greg seemed to take a moment before he allowed his Capitol smile to widen his face, crease the corners of his eyes again. 

_‘Quite a mess.’ _

_‘Was it painful? Oh, it is just terrible, isn’t it? All the pain you went through.’ _Sally grit her teeth. 

She suddenly knew what was coming. 

She looked over at Mycroft. She couldn’t bear to look at Greg anymore. She saw that Anthea had reached over the armrest, had placed her hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, as those stormy grey eyes seemed to froth and flail. 

Sally could see him steeling himself. Could see Greg’s lover clench his jaw, tighten his fingers into fists, dig his long nails into large hands. 

_‘The image of the man I loved, used so cruelly. I can’t believe it, really.’ _

_‘So Mycroft Holmes is _dead_,’ _Caesar baited, his eyes narrowed under purple hair. The camera switched angles, then turning back to Greg. 

Greg’s eyes were sparkling around the corners, and Sally could see that his hands were shaking at his sides. Gone was the act. He didn’t need it anymore. Sally had seen this before, when Greg thought she wasn’t looking. When Greg thought she wasn’t watching him. 

He was shattered. 

_‘Mycroft died in my arms. He died in my arms, and I shall never get him back as long as I live. To use his face so cruelly, it broke my heart.’ _

With a sudden burst of movement, like a statue suddenly brought to life, Mycroft was on his feet and across the room before Sally could even blink. His body swept through the left side of the screen, dissipating it for a moment, dissipating Greg’s shattered expression like mist in the air, before it reformed, and the door slammed shut again behind Mycroft. 

Anthea made to get to her feet, but Sally held out a hand. ‘Can I?’ she implored, looking at Anthea. 

She didn’t know what she wanted to say to Mycroft. She didn’t have the faintest idea. But she knew what Greg would’ve wanted her to do. What Greg would’ve asked of her, in that moment, and she couldn’t think to do anything else. 

Anthea allowed it, with a small, soft inclination of her head, and a drop back to the lounge. Beside her, Mycroft’s brother snorted into his hands, but Sally could see, peering at his face, a flicker of true worry. 

Caesar was wrapping the show up, ending the interview as abruptly as was polite, and herding Greg off-stage. He had served his purpose. 

Gently, Sally pushed open the door, out into the corridor, to see that Mycroft was standing across the glass tube on the outside circumference of the Silo, looking out with his hands on the metal handrail. 

Mycroft’s height struck her, for a moment. He was ever so tall, towering over her and everyone else around him. He had a presence to him, a swamping presence that seemed to draw her in like a magnet. 

She knew he knew she was there. He didn’t even have to look at her. Something about the way he was holding himself told her in some language that he knew. 

‘Mycroft?’ asked Sally, steeling herself, and stepping forwards to lean on the handrail herself, a few steps distance between them. 

She looked at his profile, outlined by the pale light from the hangar below them. 

Mycroft didn’t say anything at all. Entirely silent, he stared out over the hangar, his profile entirely still as stone. He didn’t look like he was going to say anything, so instead, Sally spoke. 

‘I don’t even want to imagine how hard that’s got to have been for you. But listen to me,’ Sally said, looking out over the hanger herself. Mycroft’s reaction to her words was for him alone. No one else. ‘Greg doesn’t believe you’re dead. When he found out you were actually alive, he was happy. 

‘Yeah, he was really fucking angry. Oh, and that reminds me, I’m angry with you as well for those _five bloody months. _But that’s not as important as the fact you’re alive. You’re alive, and to him that’s the greatest gift you could’ve ever given him. 

‘He…’ Sally tried to find words. ‘He was… _is. _He is so in love with you. And I know you love him, too. I can see it. I’m good like that. 

‘I don’t know if it makes you feel any better, but I’m his best mate. He told me about you, and I’ve never seen him talk about anyone like that. You were everything to him, for as little time as you knew him. I was his best mate, til you came along. And now I realise, I’ve been a placeholder all this time. I’ve been holding your place all this time, and now he’s found you. He’d been waiting for you all his life, and then there you were. He lost you, and then you came back. Not back to him, not yet, but soon. You’re his best friend, his lover, everything all wrapped up into one handsome, magnificent parcel.’ 

Mycroft was entirely silent. Sally sighed. There was only so much words could ever do, and she had never been a wordsmith. Turning, she made to go back inside, to get Maya and Alex, Charlotte, Molly and Sam, and head back to their warm little corner. She almost didn’t hear Mycroft’s response, quiet and gravelly it was. 

‘Thank you.’ 

_***_

The arena Greg had been driven to, pushed up into a special box with glass all around so he could be put on display like some sort of museum article. It was massive; seemed to reach high into the sky and deep into the ground, towering over the nearby buildings. Below, the crowd was rumbling and jostling, men with blueing muscles all gathered together cheering, their faces painted. Women fluttered in the crowd of men, their faces with a permanent smile, their bodies almost bare to the light. 

Food was everywhere, greasy and rich. The smell of it wafted up from this strange arena, circling and wafting over him. 

‘Sit down,’ Clara said, reaching out a hand and forcing him to take a seat between her and Calypso. Behind them, Dimmock was fumbling with a flask of liquid, pouring it into the strange blue concoction of drink he’d disappeared to grab. 

Across the arena, Greg could see Magnussen, sitting in a box very similar to his own, looking over the crowd. Greg couldn’t quite make out the expression on his face, but he could imagine it well enough in rich details. A look he’d seen before on Magnussen’s face, the look a pet owner might give to a particularly beloved pet. 

Cheering and hollering reached a crescendo, as in the middle of the arena, an almost ant-like man stood, his voice magnified practically magically. 

‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Coliseum!’ called the man, his arms spread wide like the circus conductor Greg had once seen an illustration of in an old book, dug up from behind the market, the words faded but the pictures still vibrant, if a bit worn. ‘This afternoon, we see the final showdown! Septimus Crown, versus The Cross himself, in a match for the ages!’ 

At the mention of the two gladiators’ names, the crowd let out another massive, rumbling roar. Various shouts of the names began to echo throughout the Coliseum, as posters and pictures were held up depicting who Greg assumed were the men in question. 

‘What’s going to happen?’ he asked, leaning over to talk to Clara. Clara let out a low sigh. 

‘A Gladiator fight. Haven’t you seen them before?’ 

‘I’m from the Districts,’ he snarked back. ‘Remember?’ 

Clara shook her head, a smile twitching the corner of her mouth. ‘They’re on the Network.’ 

‘I don’t watch the tele screen unless I absolutely have to.’ 

Behind them, Dimmock snorted. 

‘Well,’ she said, ‘First there’s going to be the blood play. Hundreds of wannabe Gladiators are sent out into the ring. They have to fight one another until a single champion rises, who gets to be a Gladiator. He goes off to train. Then, today, the big fight is between two Gladiators. Fan favourites; Septimus Crown, and The Cross. They also fight—‘ 

Clara was interrupted by the host’s voice once more. 

‘Of course before we can begin, we must welcome our two honoured guests. First, the President of Panem, President Charles Augustus Magnussen!’ 

Sweeping out a hand in a broad gesture, the host directed the crowd towards him. Magnussen got up, holding out a hand in a gesture of acknowledgement, before sinking back down into his seat. 

Greg grit his teeth for what was coming next. 

‘And, of course, we can’t forget Gregory Lestrade, the Silver Knight, winner of the 74th Hunger Games!’ 

The yelling and cheering began anew, as all the eyes in the Arena turned towards him. Clara shoved Greg roughly in the side, bidding him to stand, and hold out a hand just as Magnussen had done. 

The armour he wore clinked and shone in the sunlight, attracting him even more attention. It was light, yes, only small pieces of chest plate and gauntlets, but garish enough to feel like a horrible costume, the tunic of leather, thick and heavy on his body. 

Men cheered and women screamed at him, waving their hands frantically in greeting. Greg swept another wave, smiling as charmingly as he could at the cameras buzzing towards him, before sit-in back down as gracefully as he could. 

One camera began to circle them, letting of an annoying humming noise, no doubt to capture his reaction. Greg steeled himself, willing his face blankly charming. Beside him, Clara leaned in, touching her arm to his, before dropping it away again. 

Calypso, on the other hand, seemed to be soaking up the attention like a sponge, fluttering and posing in front of the camera, showing off her brand new hairdo. It was like watching a peacock show off its feathers. 

The host, in the centre of the arena, clapped his hands together, before spreading them wide in a delighted fashion. Greg could see projected high above the arena, a camera focused on his face, capturing the oddest expression. His face was wrong, somehow, the proportions not quite right. His eyes were too large for his face, his mouth too small. His face seemed almost triangular, and the way he held his hands reminded Greg a little of a praying mantis. 

‘Let us begin the blood play!’ exclaimed the host, his mouth spreading into a smile too small for his features, before he sunk through a hole in the ground. 

Meanwhile, the gates beneath the people opened wide, allowing what seemed to be thirty or forty men and women into the ring. They ranged from beefy to wiry, and all held an assortment of weapons; maces, swords, shields. The metal shone in the sun beating down over the Coliseum, the dirt floor kicked up by the gathering men and women. 

‘Who are they?’ asked Greg, leaning over to Clara again. Clara was looking at her lap, as if she refused to watch. 

‘Criminals,’ she replied. ‘The fittest and strongest criminals from the Districts. The ones who stole or lied or even just stepped in the way of a Peacekeeper.’ 

‘That’s not fair,’ said Greg, his voice soft. ‘What’s to say they were committing crimes for bad reasons?’ 

Clara didn’t reply. She didn’t seem to have a response. 

Greg leant back in his seat. The sight of all these people was bringing up bad memories for him. Memories of an Arena far larger than this, but no less watched. With less people, sure, but younger. Less well equipped to survive, almost certainly. 

Beside him, Calypso was leaning forwards in her seat, her eyes sparkling. She seemed to almost be enjoying the process, grinning and holding her hands up, excited. 

The sound of a gong rung over the Coliseum, to the great cheers of the participants. There was a moment, where the sounds of the crowd drowned out, and Greg looked down on this similar, yet wildly different arena. It was as if the crowd was behind glass, moving in slow motion, like the trickling of honey in a glass jar. 

Beneath him, a young, wiry man with blond hair was cornered by three burly men, their faces covered by cloth. They had a long spear each between them, and the young man, as Greg watched had his weapon - a dagger - thrust from his hand with a single swipe of the heavy blade on the spears. 

The blond man let out a low scream of agony, as his hand was severed from his wrist in a flash of red, the dagger and the hand falling uselessly to the dirt with a thump. A stump was all that remained, and suddenly Greg wanted to be sick. The sound of the audience was suddenly deafening in his ears, and he was glad that he hadn’t let John come along. 

Greg couldn’t flinch. He couldn’t let himself flinch, even as the man was impaled on the spear in a spray of blood, leaving a trail of blood up the white wall of the Coliseum, almost reaching where the Capitol citizens were seated. One, close to the splatter, even reached down to touch it, to the jeering cheers of his companions. 

Forcing himself still Greg took a breath in through his nose, and out through his mouth. The stench of blood and bone permeated the air, as the Capitol citizens around him went berserk, cheering and screeching at the bloody fights. 

The three men who had executed the wiry young blond had now turned on one another. One had been skewered, laying on the ground in a pile of blood and what appeared to be the snaking of red intestines, spilt over the dirt. They had their spears crossed, spitting in one another’s faces. 

Greg couldn’t watch any longer. 

Looking for some excuse to look away, he leaned towards Clara, to his relief turning his face away from the gore. ‘Clara, I don’t know if I can do this,’ he whispered, trying not to move his lips too much or be too loud, so hopefully the cameras wouldn’t hear him. 

‘Just… just hang in there, Greg,’ she replied. ‘I hate this as well.’ 

‘You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?’ he asked her, softly. She inclined her head. 

‘My father was a gladiator,’ she replied. ‘I went to his matches. I went to the one where he was killed, as well.’ 

Greg fell silent, still looking at her. She was looking directly at him, her dark hair framing her face, dark eyes downcast. He was thankful for the reprieve, the chance to not have to look at the blood sport beneath him. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered to her. She waved his comment away with a flick of her hair. 

‘Don’t be,’ she replied. ‘He gave me a life here in the Capitol, he gave me something I could never have had on my own. Without him, Greg, I would’ve never got to meet you.’ 

Greg smiled at her, resting a hand on her shoulder briefly. 

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ the host boomed over the speakers. ‘We have a winner!’ 

Greg turned to look down in the centre of the Coliseum. 

It was true. Standing there was a young man with dark hair and a thick beard, deeply tanned skin and corded muscles banding over his chest and arms. He held an axe in one hand, and was covered in blood, so thick it seemed to coat his skin and drip down his body. 

On his arms were thick metal cuffs, stamped with small stars. 

Around him, dead bodies were piled into little mounds, blood and empty eyes boring into Greg’s soul. 

Greg looked away. 

‘Now, of course, it’s up to you. President Magnussen? What say you?’ 

Magnussen stood, stepping up to the glass platform over the Coliseum, and looking down on the single man left. 

All eyes turned to the President. 


	8. Bloodsport

Magnussen held his hand high, looking out over the Coliseum, regarding the entire place with those shark-like eyes. Greg could see his face on the big screen, peering down his nose at the burly man in the middle of the arena. The man was looking up at him, bugling muscles practically bursting out of his tunic. He’d dropped the axe to the dirt, the sand sticking to the blood on the blade. 

‘What’s happening?’ asked Greg, leaning over to speak to Clara again. ‘Why is he standing up?’ 

‘He has to decide, now,’ replied Clara, shrugging. ‘Whether that man gets to live or die.’ 

‘But… he won? Didn’t he?’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Clara, ‘He did. Doesn’t matter. If Magnussen thinks the man should die, then he’s going to die.’ 

‘How does he decide?’ 

‘Listen to the people,’ Clara murmured. ‘They are calling for this man’s blood. They may call for his life. Perhaps if he were more handsome, he’d be more likely to survive. But as it is…’ 

Clara trailed off. 

Despite the thunderous sound of the crowds around them, there was a sudden silence amongst them. Dimmock was slurping his alcohol behind him, Calypso was watching with excited, shining eyes, and Clara seemed hunched down, her eyes downcast, as she stared at her fingers intently. 

Greg looked up, folding his hands tightly on his lap, his armour tinkling as he moved. The man below in the arena was waving his arms, as if he could somehow summon up more people in support of him. 

On the other hand, the people all gathered around the arena were shouting, screaming and hollering for the man’s blood. 

Magnussen held out his hand, his thumb pointing directly horizontally. The cameras zoomed in on his finger, and the crowds watched with bated breath as it flickered, trembling up and down, before pointing directly downwards. 

A great, rumbling, thundering cheer rose up from the crowd, gathering almost like a wave as it washed through the Coliseum. 

‘And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen!’ shouted the host, his triangular face going bright red. ‘We have our decision! Thank you, President Magnussen! Now, who wants to see some blood?!’ 

The audience was screaming and hollering, jeering through cupped hands down at the poor man, whose arms had fallen by his sides, and who was looking down at his feet in terror. His shoulders almost seemed to be shaking. 

Greg couldn’t watch it any longer. 

Suddenly, he sprung to his feet, holding out a hand, his armour shining in the light. 

‘Stop!’ he shouted, loud enough for the camera floating somewhere around him to hear. 

The entire arena seemed to quiet, a thousand pairs of eyes all turning on him. Swallowing dryly, Greg turned to look at the buzzing camera, which had drifted down to focus on his face. 

He could feel Dimmock’s eyes, frozen on his face. He could feel Clara’s gaze boring into his back, Calypso with her hands covering her mouth, delicately clothed in lace. 

‘Well, well, well,’ said the host, his voice buzzing through the loudspeakers. ‘Our honoured guest has something to say. Gregory Lestrade, everybody, the Silver Knight! What would you have me do?’ 

Greg sucked in a breath through his nose, straightening his back even under the weight of the heavy leather tunic and shining armour. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, instead, looking down towards the man in the arena. 

Immediately, the man, his bulging muscles looking smaller, slimmer under the weight of the sentence he had been handed, looked up at him, eyes wide. The cameras zoomed in on his face, awaiting the response. 

‘Alfred,’ said the man, his voice surprisingly high and young, betraying a youth that Greg could hardly believe. ‘Alfred Bainbridge, sir.’ 

Greg smiled, as reassuringly as he could. ‘And what crime were you convicted of?’ 

‘Stealing bread, sir,’ replied Bainbridge, shaking. ‘I stole bread for my brother.’ 

‘I see,’ said Greg. ‘Well, shouldn’t we spare him?’ 

‘You are kind, Silver Knight!’ called the host. ‘Well, perhaps as you are the guest of honour today, perhaps we can reconsider the decision. What do you think, ladies and gentlemen?’ 

A shout rose from the crowd, a cheer for Greg. Yes, people were still screaming for Bainbridge’s blood, but far more were calling out to Greg, calling Greg’s name, calling for the Silver Knight. 

‘I would have stolen bread to save my son,’ said Greg, raising a hand to the crowd. ‘Especially if it meant he got to eat on a night he might go hungry.’ 

An even more deafening cheer rose from the crowd, swamping Greg and swarming over him. Cameras were buzzing around his head, and the audience’s shouts rolled over him, making his head swim. 

‘So, I suppose that settles that!’ the host said. ‘Alfred Bainbridge is to be spared by the Silver Knight! What a turn of events!’ 

Greg sat back down, after waving once more to the audience. Beside him, Calypso was sighing, and resting a hand on his shoulder. ‘So brave,’ she gasped, ‘Noble. So noble.’ 

Clara leaned against him, ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, her voice soft. Greg shook his head. 

‘I hate this,’ he replied. ‘It feels like the Games. But worse. When you win these Games, it’s still up to Magnussen whether you live or you die. I mean… I’m far too much like him. Magnussen wants me dead. I know he does.’ 

Clara didn’t reply, just inclined her head. 

Just then, Dimmock leaned over his left shoulder, resting a hand there and breathing out a foul smelling, alcohol ridden breath into Greg’s ear. ‘That was well done,’ he said, his voice low and slightly slurred. ‘Sparing that man, makes you brave. Chivalrous. They like that shit here.’ 

‘It’s not an act,’ Greg said, shaking his head. ‘It’s not. It’s just me.’ 

‘That makes it even better,’ crowed Dimmock, pushing off Greg’s back and leaning into his chair once more. 

Not for the first time today, Greg wanted to be sick. 

The Gladiator, Bainbridge, was led off through a small door in the side of the Coliseum, into the darkness. Greg had no idea if his actions had actually made any difference. Whether Bainbridge would actually get to live, or whether Magnussen would just have him killed to prove a point, he didn’t know. 

Bainbridge had looked so desperate, his shoulders shaking, his eyes downcast, that Greg couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t help but save the man, or at least try to. 

‘Now!’ called the host, his triangular face shining with sweat on the massive screens above the arena, ‘We move to the main event. The battle, between our two great champions! Here they are now!’ 

With a wide, sweeping gesture, the man pointed to one side of the arena. Another large door opened, and a man walked out. This man was also beefy, massively built with rounded muscles bulging everywhere. His neck was so thick it looked almost like a tree trunk, and hanging from this massive neck, bouncing on a beefy chest, was a crown pendant. It was bright gold, glittering garishly in the sunlight. 

Then, the trumpets played; booming out an anthem over the arena. ’Ladies and gentlemen, Septimus Crown!’ The champion let out a great roar, beating his chest like a gorilla. 

Greg couldn’t help but snort into his hand. 

The man himself was nasty looking, with sharp, sallow features, and massive veins popping in his forehead. He was entirely bald, and a dark tattoo wound over his skull. His eyes were tiny and pig-like, peering at the nearby camera with half a mind to bat it away. Like Bainbridge, this man also had a beard, thick and hairy, the moustache coiffed into an odd whirl. 

Overall, the image he presented was hysterical to Greg, but to the audience, he was revered. They were shouting his name, yelling it through the crowd, holding up great posters of the champion and jeering at him, egging him on in his chest beating. 

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Greg grinned, leaning over to Clara. 

‘Entirely,’ she snorted. ‘That’s the point.’ 

Again, the trumpets began to play, tooting out a piped chorus through the loudspeakers around the arena, almost drowned out by the cheering and screaming of the audience. 

‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, The Cross!’ screamed the host. 

Another door opened up directly across from Septimus Crown, revealing another barrel chested man. This one was far larger looking, almost nastier in appearance than the original. Greg guessed the nice ones didn’t make it so far in a game like this. 

He still had hair, long, thick, black hair hanging in dreadlocks down the side of his face and cascading over his shoulders. He also had a beard, but it was braided, and his eyes were a pale shade of blue. Strapped over his chest like a harness was his namesake, a cross of leather strips, shining in the sunlight with the amount of gloss that had been applied to it. He was also strapping, beefy around his core and his arms, his legs looking far more robust than Septimus Crown’s.

‘Oh, I have my bets on him,’ sighed Calypso, leaning dreamily into one of her hands. 

Greg couldn’t help but snort, again, into his other hand. Both men presented themselves entirely ridiculously, but to the residents of the glitzy Capitol, this was entirely serious. Posters were being held up and waved around, depicting the faces of both men. Their eyes were locked onto one another, as if they were animals bred to fight in a cage just like the ones Greg had seen in the back alleys. 

People, he could hear, were taking bets on who was going to win, even as the two gladiators down in the ring circled each other, feinting towards one another even though they had no weapons. Calypso was leaning forwards again, her eyes bright with the blood. 

How could she be enjoying this? How could she like watching this? Despite the spectacle, this was just another way the Capitol had of torturing and killing people for their own pleasure. 

Greg could see the evidence of it on these men’s bodies. Long scars that ran up the sides of the men’s torsos, thin ropey ones over their faces. The Cross even seemed to be missing three fingers on his left hand, and Septimus Crown had all the toes on one of his feet taken off. 

It was as if they had played the game with the aim to take off as many limbs as possible before striking the killing blow in a sickening torture of the flesh. Both these champions looked hacked at, as if they had been bitten to the bone by dogs and forced to heal up again. 

As he watched, the weapons they were handed glinted in the sun. Light, shining off deadly steel. They were handed round shields that looked almost like eyes, domed in shape and sitting on each arm. 

The audience below was howling for blood, screaming and shouting out the gladiators’ names. The gladiators themselves seemed to be soaking up the attention, basking in it as if they enjoyed it. 

The Cross flicked his long hair over his shoulder, thrusting his fists into the air, his short, almost stubby sword shining. People were screaming and reaching for him as he preened and curled his muscles for their pleasure. 

Greg couldn’t understand it. He couldn’t understand how these men could enjoy the attention of all the glitzy Capitol citizens, their eyes shining with delight. They were swamped with the fleeting attention, even thought Greg knew that soon these people would forget them, move on to the next thing, the next gladiator to rise to glory like it was nobody’s business. These men would be tossed aside like so much trash, and next week women like Calypso wouldn’t even remember their names. 

The men were circling each other again, growling and letting out other beastly noises. Greg didn’t know if it was by choice or not, but they didn’t speak. They almost didn’t seem to be capable of it, as if being here in this ring had stripped them of all their ability to communicate like a human. 

But everyone here was animalistic. Greg knew it. Magnussen knew it. The bloodlust all these audience members displayed, the howling and screeching for the bloodsport to continue; it reminded him of the wild dogs that would roam the plains, ripping apart an unlucky animal left to fend for itself. 

It almost reminded him of the snuffling, squealing wild pig that Greg had caught one night on his farm, stabbed straight through the eye. It had made for good eating that night, but Greg was hard pressed to forget the loud screeching it had made when it was caught. 

One of the gladiators beat his sword against his chest, and let out a wolf-like howl, rolling over the crowd. 

Then, the gong sounded. 

It echoed over the Coliseum, rolling around like a metal ball in a dish. The audience cheered and screamed, and the two men paused, for a moment. It was almost as if they were contemplating their situation. 

Then, they launched at one another like cannonballs out of a cannon, barreling towards one another with shouts of bloodlust. A swing of massive swords, and they clashed in a great screech of metal and protesting iron. Their swords glinted in the sunlight, the sharp, clean blades striking Greg through, blinding him for a moment to the spectacle. 

Against his better urges, Greg found himself watching. 

These men weren’t trained. They were strong, and they were desperate. It was like watching dogs fight in a cage, it truly was. They ripped at one another, swinging desperate, massive swipes of their swords. Their shields became dinged and dented, as each swipe was blocked ungracefully by the other’s shield. 

The Cross seemed to be winning, slamming his blade down again and again on top of the other one’s shield, held over his bald head. With each slam, there was a loud screech of metal, amplified by the cameras floating around, through the arena and boring into Greg’s ears. 

Greg wanted to cover them, but he also knew a camera was watching, waiting for his reaction. He had already proven to be an interesting character, he knew. Now, they were just waiting for the next juicy piece. 

He forced himself still, steady, leaning back next to Clara who was flinching almost imperceptibly with every clash of steel. 

Suddenly, the rhythm was cut off, as instead of a scratch of steel, there was a wet sound as steel buried itself in flesh, slicing clean through. The Cross had lost the remaining fingers on his left hand to a cut upwards from Septimus Crown, slicing clean through bones and ligaments in a massive sweep which left the flesh flying through the air, and The Cross howling in pain. Blood sprayed over the shield and Septimus Crown’s blade, splattering out in a pattern of gore Greg had seen before. 

‘And we have the first blood!’ screamed the host, excitedly, his face red. His eyes were bulging out even more than they already were, his mouth spread wide in excitement. For the first time, Greg could make out that he actually had sharpened teeth, teeth filed down to points as if they were designed to rip into flesh. 

It was horrifying. 

Greg knew that people in the Capitol modified their bodies in strange ways, he knew that this man had certainly had some modifications, but this seemed almost extreme, almost too much. It was brutal, in a way, biting, the fancy overcoat left bare by the bones of what was. 

Septimus Crown was waving his blood-splattered sword in the air, waving it as if to conduct the wild screams and cheers going up from the audience. They seemed to be frothing at the mouth from just the sight of the first blood of the match, the flesh that was now missing from The Cross. 

The man himself had let out a howl, but was now seemingly ready to fight again. Blood was oozing from his hand in a slow trickle; it was unnatural, really. Greg had never seen anything like it before in his life. The fleshy stumps where his fingers used to be seemed to already be clotting up, where Greg would have thought a wound like that would leave the sufferer bleeding for hours before a clot finally began to form. 

There was something in these men. Something injected into their blood that made them different, somehow. More animalistic. 

It was perhaps to be expected, really. 

The Cross was growling like a dog, barking like one too, as he began to circle his opponent once more, to the ecstatic screeches of the crowd. The other one drew his attention, did the exact same thing, circling one another, before flying towards the centre of their imaginary circle, slamming together in a clash of steel and a spray of sparks. 

They quickly fell back into the rhythm of the fight, clash of steel and whirling body movements, heavy swipes with sword and shield, even as one continued to bleed from the stumps of fingers on his hand. 

Smaller and larger cuts were doled out to both gladiators, until they were scratched and beaten up to the point where they looked like they’d both been attacked by some sort of rabid beast. The Cross’s hair had been shorn off, while Septimus Crown seemed to be missing the tips of his moustache, along with a large chunk of his thigh. 

But even Greg could tell that the crowd was getting bored. They were chatting amongst themselves once more, looking away from the fight, some even getting up to fetch food, or even getting up to leave. 

The host was red in the face, biting his lip, until he raised a hand, and the gong sounded again. The crowd cheered. 

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he called, grabbing the attention of the thousands in the arena. ‘Why don’t we make things a little more interesting? Bring out the _Mutts!’ _

A massive scream of excitement echoed around the arena, even as the two gladiators down the bottom seemed to look around, almost nervously. More gates were raised from the dirt, and suddenly, Greg could hear the familiar sound of screeching howls, mixed in with the screams of humans, and the loud pounding of massive paws on the dirt. 

Out of the gates poured the animal that had haunted Greg’s nightmare; three Darkhounds, their coats dark against the lighter dirt beneath them. They were massive, at least as large as the waist of the two men fighting in the middle of the ring. Burly, they were, with massive dinner-plate sized paws and huge, snapping teeth. Bright red eyes shone, even in the light of day, shimmering and glaring out over the audience.

They began to circle, their massive tails swishing, their teeth bared, as they evaluated their prey in almost human-like fashion. 

Greg felt all the air go from his lungs. 

The Darkhounds had absorbed his nightmares for the last five months. They had haunted him, following him around in the dark, howling and screaming into his ears. 

Suddenly it all came back, the desperation, the sweat of Mycroft’s hand as it fell from his own, the knowledge that they were right on his heel. He could feel his muscles tense and adrenaline begin to pump through his veins, even as he knew he was beginning to shake. 

Darting through the trees casting a shadow over his face, leaping up into the sunset like great arms come to claw him down to the dirt, it all flashed through his mind. All that it brought with it, the sight of Mycroft’s bloodless face on his lap, the sight of Mycroft’s blood pouring from the wound in his chest. 

Even Moriarty, looking down on his body, on the pavement, in the silent, still second before the Darkhounds had reached his body. The sickening tear of the minute hand through his side, his blood seeping out onto the pavement; until the Darkhounds came and ripped it apart. Greg could remember the sounds, brutal and slick, the blood spraying and the yapping, almost joyful sounds of the beasts over their meal. 

And Greg remembered looking away, pressing his face into Mycroft’s shoulder, feeling those long arms wrap around him. 

‘I can’t do this,’ Greg whimpered, his voice breaking, even as Clara reached for him. Shaking his head, Greg got to his feet, knowing the cameras were watching and not caring. 

‘Greg!’ called Clara, but it was no use. Greg darted down the steps, running towards where he could remember the car being, under the arena where the people above him were howling and the Darkhounds were yapping and yowling away. 

It had been sent for him. The car was standing open, waiting for him to get inside, and before Greg could think it through he threw himself inside, slamming the door behind him. The door was enough to block out the sounds of the Darkhounds. It was like flicking a switch. 

Suddenly, he was in silence. 

The crowds had been screaming so deafeningly before, that suddenly Greg didn’t really know what to do with himself. Suddenly, he didn’t know how to cope with the silence any better than the sounds of the Darkhounds themselves. 

He knew the car was moving. He knew it was rolling down the green-lined avenue, away from the lights and sounds of the Coliseum behind him. He knew it was gliding through the streets of the Capitol. 

He had to focus on that, for now. The sight of the massive spires arching up around him, taking him away from the squat curves of the arena behind him. 

It was hard to breathe. 

***

‘Greg?’ John’s soft voice asked, as soon as Greg was practically pushed through the door to the Tribute apartments. 

John’s small form was sitting on the lounge across from the black tele screen, his chin resting on his knees. His small blue eyes had been downcast, but had looked up immediately to see Greg when Greg stepped through with heavy footing. 

Greg’s son unfolded himself from the couch, pushing himself off to land on two small feet. Immediately, he puttered over, leaping at Greg and wrapping his arms around Greg’s neck. 

Almost surprised, Greg brought up his own arms to wrap around John’s small form, carefully holding the boy up against his chest. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked, gentling a hand down John’s shoulder. 

John shook his head, right in Greg’s neck, his blond hair brushing over the bare skin there. ‘You left me alone here.’ 

‘I had to,’ replied Greg. ‘I didn’t want you to see the Gladiator fight.’ 

‘Where are Dimmock and Clara?’ asked John, leaning back to look up at Greg with wide, solemn blue eyes. Greg shook his head, looking down at his feet. 

‘They’re coming later on,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think it’s over yet.’

‘Why didn’t you stay, then?’ John asked, reaching out to put a hand on Greg’s cheek. Greg smiled, softly, at his solemn son, silently brushing a hand through his hair. 

‘It’s hard,’ Greg murmured, in response. ‘I felt sick, I guess.’ 

‘Do you need some soup? Or some water?’

‘No,’ replied Greg, turning to sit down on the lounge, John still in his lap. 

It was easier, now. It helped him breathe, having John’s tiny body next to his own, relying on him to be there. John’s breaths were calming to him, a gentle movement of air in and out of tiny lungs. 

Greg’s heart was pounding in his ears, thundering through his veins just like the applause and screeching cheers of the audience back in the arena had done. But his breaths were finally beginning to slow, gentling to match the rhythm of John’s small chest. 

Of course, the moment of peace he had been granted was shattered, when a loud rap came on the door. A knock he recognised. 

The door was pushed open by the same Peacekeeper from before, the tall one with the featureless mask and the white, ridged carapace. The swirls of gold on his shoulder shone under the natural lighting streaming in through the massive windows. 

‘John,’ whispered Greg, ‘You go to your room. You go to your room now, and you stay there.’ 

John looked up, seeing the Peacekeeper at the door, and quickly dropping out of Greg’s lap. He ran away, his small feet pattering over the carpet, down the steps and into the hallway that led to his room. Only when Greg heard the sound of his door slamming did he get to his feet, stepping outside with the Peacekeeper, who didn’t even need to say anything. 

Sharply, Greg shrugged out of the grip that the Peacekeeper tried to lay on his arm, heading straight for the steps that would lead up to the garden where he knew Magnussen was waiting for him. 

It struck Greg, then. 

This was planned. It was all planned out in advance by Magnussen. Magnussen had put that man there, that man with the stolen bread, knowing he was going to win. Knowing Greg was going to try and save him. 

Magnussen had set the Darkhounds up, knowing exactly what Greg would feel, how Greg would act. The car had been there at exactly the right time, rolling up to the arena, waiting for him to rush out without thinking, as if the Darkhounds were back, on his heels. 

Now here he was, ready to flaunt his victory over Greg’s head, ready to smile that shark-like smile, narrow those small, beady eyes at him over the rim of those almost spindly glasses as his fish smell wafted over Greg. 

Greg stepped up into the sunlight on top of the tower, the scent of freshly cut grass washing over him. The vegetation was greener to his eye than he had ever seen it, swirling around him in a haze of soft, almost comforting scents. It would have to do, for now. 

Magnussen was there waiting for him directly, t his time. No posturing, he didn’t need it. 

He was standing in the centre of the path leading to the edge of the tower, his hands folded before him, his suit pristine. He looked almost as if he had been placed there like the king on a chessboard, even as his face split into that horrid smile that Greg had decided he despised. 

‘President Magnussen,’ Greg steeled himself, stepping closer and inclining his head, a waft of that fish smell waving over him.His stomach was already roiling and turning inside him, spinning around, empty of food. ‘I am sorry for walking out like that. I’m afraid I felt a bit sick.’ 

Magnussen waved it away, his eyes boring into Greg over his spectacles. ‘No harm, no foul,’ he said. ‘I of course understand. It can be… hard… for a first time viewer of the Gladiator battle, the blood play is rather… gory.’ 

Greg didn’t reply, just folded his hands into a position that mirrored Magnussen’s, allowing a frown to form on his face. ‘Was there anything else for today?’ asked Greg, ‘I’m sorry but I am feeling a little ill, and I would like to spend some time with my son.’ 

‘Your son,’ murmured Magnussen. ‘Such a darling little boy. Well-behaved, as well.’ 

Greg inclined his head, again. ‘Thank you,’ he replied, unable to think of a better response.

‘He spent all his time while you were gone just sitting on the lounge. He got up, once or twice, ate some food, drank a glass of water. But other than that, he waited around for you like a dutiful little dog.’ 

Greg flinched, recognising this for what it was, and forcibly stopping himself from being brought low by it. He remained entirely silent, for fear of what would come out of his mouth if he allowed himself to speak. 

Magnussen sighed, almost seeming to be disappointed when Greg didn’t say anything. He stepped closer, and Greg stepped back. 

Freezing, Magnussen’s face split into that smile again, his teeth shining white between thin, tiny lips. He cocked his head to the side, stepping forwards again. This time, Greg managed to stop himself from taking another step back, and instead remained where he was, allowed Magnussen to creep closer and closer, so close that the fish smell was practically overpowering, the overlaying of flowery scent having entirely evaporated. 

‘You are a problem, _Gregory_ Lestrade,’ Magnussen said, slickly. 

Greg flinched, again. Only Mycroft could call him that. That felt sacred, one of Mycroft’s little quirks that this slimy man was slicking up and taking for himself, winding up in those small hands. ‘But this time? This time you won’t be the hero.’ 

Magnussen stepped back, then, holding out a hand. A Peacekeeper dressed all in white stepped forwards, dumping something gold and metallic into his hands. Holding them up with an almost gleeful quirk of his lips, Magnussen jingled them like a set of keys. Or perhaps a set of manacles. 

The metal rings that Bainbridge had worn on his upper arms were held in Magnussen’s fingers, dangling from them like so much trash. Greg saw with wide eyes that they were liberally splattered with red blood, shining in the sunlight. 

He had known this was coming. He had known it was coming, but that didn’t make it any less difficult to see. It was hard to see those metal rings, knowing what they meant. 

That poor man. 

Bainbridge had such dark eyes, and the sight of those shoulders shaking had struck Greg to the core. That was him. 

The ease with which Magnussen had executed the man, had found a little token to bring back to Greg like some sort of souvenir told him a great deal. Greg was in far more danger than he knew. Far more danger than anyone knew. 

Magnussen could kill him as easily as he could keep him alive, and there was no telling whether he would even wake up tomorrow morning. No armour could protect him from this. 

This was it. 

Magnussen needed him alive, but for how long? How long until, just like the gladiators in the ring, the people of the Capitol forgot about him? He was harder to forget, sure. But he was no less able to be forgotten. 

Soon, they would all get on up and move on to the next thing, and he would be left in the dirt as Magnussen’s plaything. 

Greg felt his stomach roil.

Magnussen let the rings go then, drop to the ground like so much dirt. Then, the tall man walked away, his shoulders straight, unafraid that Greg would dare to reach out to strike him, no matter how easy it would be. 

Were their positions reversed, Greg knew it would be easy for the other man. 

The arm rings lay there, the gold coated now in dust and dirt, shining dully in the sunlight. Greg couldn’t take it anymore, turning around to throw up what little was in his stomach into a nearby bush. 

***

Greg lay on his side on the lounge, dressed in nothing but a pair of soft pants and a loose shirt, just letting the Capitol’s logo, spinning on the tele screen in front of him, light his face. John was lying next to him, tucked into his front, playing with the tips of Greg’s fingers. 

It was quiet in the apartment, the sounds of the Capitol residents outside finally beginning to die down. 

Since Magnussen’s visit to him only a few hours before, Greg had found himself in a state of subdued haze. The world seemed to pass him by dully, Clara’s comforts numbed away. 

John was quietly fidgeting, not so much to disturb Greg, but not so little that Greg didn’t notice. He was nervous, that much was easy to tell. 

‘Greg?’ asked John, after a little while. ‘What are we going to do?’ 

‘I don’t know, little soldier,’ replied Greg, his voice quiet. 

‘Why did you say Mycroft was dead?’ 

Greg shook his head, leaning down to bury his face in the soft, thin strands of John’s blond hair. ‘I had no choice,’ he replied, muffled. ‘It’s hard to talk about it in a way you’ll understand, but it’s better if the Capitol thinks Mycroft is dead.’ 

‘But he’s not dead,’ said John. ‘We saw him ourselves. He was talking to you.’ 

‘To everyone, John,’ Greg murmured, softly. 

Greg was angry about the five months Mycroft had spent letting Greg think he was dead. But at the same time, his deepest wish right now was to be with Mycroft. Wherever the bastard was. 

Just to be there. 

It was torturous; knowing Mycroft was out there, knowing that he was alive, and not being able to be by his side. This was a greater Game, now. The Hunger Games were over, and this was the game of war. 

But Greg had never been in a game like this where Mycroft wasn’t by his side. All the tiny mind games, and the bigger trials of bloodshed and bloodsport that had come with the Hunger Games, Greg had fought them with Mycroft by his side. 

Right now, facing Magnussen, he felt alone. He felt so, desperately alone. 

John was here, and that was a small comfort, and yet at the same time a horrible burden. A worry, for if John was here, he was at risk. It would be better if John was safe. 

But John was here. Magnussen was here. They were all in danger, and Greg could hardly think for the sense of panic that was swamping him, sweeping his lower belly into a great spin of confusing emotions and fear. 

Above all else, fear. 

Fear for John. Fear for Sally, and Maya, and Molly, Alex, Charlotte and Sam. Where they were, what they were doing. Worry for himself, that he wouldn’t survive. 

But sweeping in the front of his mind was worry for Mycroft. Mycroft, who was leading a rebellion and who had also just seen Greg deny that he was alive on the Network. Mycroft would understand, but if Greg were where Mycroft was, then he would still feel… feel what? 

Panic? Worry? Sorrow?

Feel… _something. _

That was all Greg could say. Something. 


	9. Coal

The room was dim, when Mycroft stepped through the doors into the designated space for the council. They all sat around an oval-shaped table surfaced with glass with white underneath, lighting it from beneath. At the head of the table sat Culverton, his hair white in the rushlights, the stars of the night sky outside shimmering. 

For the leader of a rebellion, the man looked well-rested, his eyes narrowed and focused on Mycroft as he entered. 

One hand was covering his small mouth, as if he had just stopped laughing, and his forehead was creased, those small eyes boring holes into Mycroft’s chest. Around him, the other members of the council were gathered. 

Mike Stamford sat to Culverton’s left, his jovial face round, with its eternal smile still present. Beside him, Elizabeth Smallwood was seated, her hair coiffed neatly around her head, and her small, watery blue eyes focused on the data pad sitting on the table in front of her. She was still clothed in her rich fabrics, her thin lips pursed. 

On the other side of the table, two seats were left empty, presumably for Anthea and himself. 

It was a mockery of a round table from the ancient Arthurian legend. A mockery of a round table at which everyone was equal, where in reality this table had a head. 

This table had a head, at which sat the snake. 

Silently, Mycroft walked around to take the seat directly across from Stamford’s, to the right of Culverton. He took ahold of the back of the chair in one long-fingered hand, before lifting its weight, and dragging it around the table to the other end, directly across from Culverton. Silently, he sat the chair upright, before pulling it back and taking a seat, folding his hands on the table in front of him. 

Quietly, Anthea took the seat to his left, bringing out her own data pad, and beginning to type away. 

With a small smile, Mycroft did the same. 

At the other end of the table, Culverton had stopped smiling. In fact, his face had fallen into a frown, his sunken lips creasing. Mycroft cleared his throat. 

‘What have you brought us here out of bed for, Culverton?’ asked Mycroft, allowing his voice to loudly spread through the room, to interrupt the silence. 

Culverton spread his hands, shrugging slightly with a downturn of his lips and a creasing of that milky pale forehead, pocked through with age spots. ‘I thought we should begin to plan, old friend. The first stage of our plan has been seen through. Now, we must decide what to do next.’ 

‘I am resurrected,’ Mycroft replied, with a twist of his lips that could be interpreted as a smile. ‘The people of Panem know that we are here, and that we are speaking. We must now act. Strike whilst the iron is hot, so to speak.’ 

‘You are correct, Mr Holmes,’ said Elizabeth, her small lips turning down, as she looked at her data pad, her eyes narrowing. ‘But which District?’ 

‘I’d say District Five first,’ said Culverton, raising a hand in a mockery of a student in a classroom. 

Mycroft frowned. ‘District Five? We have far more refugees from District Twelve. Certainly, the Capitol will begin to suspect the number leaving the area.’

‘District Five has more resources. We take District Five,’ began Culverton, ‘then we have the resources to make up that which we will lose.’ 

‘Stamford?’ queried Mycroft, looking over at Mike over steepled fingers. Mike quirked his head to the side, tapping his round chin with a fat finger. 

‘What are you thinking of doing? In the District, I mean.’ 

‘Help people—‘ 

‘—Gather resources.’ 

Culverton shot a foul look at Mycroft, showing his teeth in a mockery of a smile. Smith’s blackened teeth seemed to shimmer, dully, even in the dim light afforded to the conference room. 

‘We must achieve both,’ said Mycroft. ‘We must gather further resources, and we must help people. That is the purpose of this rebellion, is it not, _Culverton?’ _

Culverton inclined his head, not deigning to answer. 

Mycroft got to his feet, leaning forwards onto the table with his palms, and fixing each one of the members of the council with a stare. Aside from Anthea, of course, who was still typing away. 

Culverton, he fixed with a deep stare, willing the man down. A battle of wills was constantly waged between himself and the other man. A war for the leadership of the Resistance. It was difficult. 

There were people loyal to Culverton. People who would always be loyal to the man. He had incendiary ideas, ideas to hit back that appealed to people who had been hurt, who wanted to hurt back. 

Mycroft, on the other hand, had always known that he was fighting for the hard side. He was arguing the losing argument. He advocated kindness, constantly. Primarily because it was what Gregory had always requested of him. 

Mycroft never could deny the part of himself that Culverton appealed to. That deep part of himself which wanted to hit back at the system for the unfairness it had dealt upon himself, his father, his sister, his family. Gregory, of course, as well. 

Culverton appealed to the voice inside him that wanted to burn the Capitol to the ground with Magnussen on top of the pile. 

But that was not what Gregory had asked of him. 

Gregory, despite the unfairness visited upon him by the Capitol, had always asked for kindness. He had asked for forgiveness, of all things. Understanding. 

Understanding that instead of being cruel, manipulative dictators, the Capitol people were instead misguided. They needed the kindness, the space, the time and understanding to develop empathy for the people of the Districts. Gregory believed he could teach it to them. He always had. 

Mycroft turned his dark gaze onto Elizabeth Smallwood. 

A force unto herself, the high ranking member of Magnussen’s staff was no fool. She fixed Mycroft with a steely gaze of her own, a gaze through watery blue eyes that implored him to think more carefully about his decision. It implored him to think of ways to appeal to Culverton, for certainly at the moment, Culverton held a great deal of sway with the people of the Resistance. 

But Elizabeth was also kind. She saw the wisdom of what Mycroft was advocating for, the display of kindness that instead of continuing the great, dark cycle that would form were Culverton to have his way, it was time to break the circle. Time to build a better world of mercy and kindness. And she was wise enough to know that Mycroft, with Gregory standing by his side, was the man to do it. 

Mycroft turned to Mike, then. Mike’s eyes were narrowed, as if to question exactly what it was that Mycroft was doing. But in his eyes was tacit support. Always. 

Nodding his head, Mycroft turned back to cast his eyes on Culverton once more. Certain in his own decision, he stiffened his jaw. 

‘District Twelve,’ he said, decisively. ‘We go to District Twelve, first.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Culverton, immediately, frowning, long lines forming at the corners of his mouth. 

‘To help people,’ said Mycroft. ‘We help people first. We worry about resources later. The Resistance has been stockpiling resources for a long time. We have been building the skill of our people for a long time. Now, it is time to use those resources to enact real change. We do that, by beginning in District Twelve.

‘I have waited this long, Culverton. I am not a patient man. I have waited, and allowed you to stockpile resources, to cling to them like a dragon clings to its loot. But this Resistance is here to free people. 

‘We will go to District Five. But we will not go there first. They do not need us as badly as those in District Twelve do. The people of District Twelve are poor. They are suffering. They need our help, which we offer to them, freely. We offer them a safe place, we offer them our protection.

‘In return, we can make use of their fuel and their space. We can defend them well enough. Then, we move on to the other districts.’ 

Culverton seemed to stand his ground for a moment against Mycroft’s word onslaught. Mike, Mycroft knew, was watching with bated breath, and Elizabeth had her hands clenched tightly, white knuckled in her lap under the table. 

Then, he nodded, sharply. ‘Very well.’ 

With a wave of his hand, he silently dismissed himself, getting up with a scrape of his chair and walking towards the exit. When he reached level with Mycroft, where Mycroft was still standing, he paused for a moment. Casting a single look over Mycroft, Culverton let his eyes roam straight up then down Mycroft’s body. 

Immediately, Mycroft felt a series of chills creep up his back. 

It was uncommon for him to be disturbed by anything, but in that moment, all he could feel was the long, thin, slimy tendrils of an octopus, worming up his back. 

Culverton slid from the room. 

Slowly, both Anthea and Elizabeth stepped from the room. Mike also got up to leave, but before he could, Mycroft held out a hand, requesting he stay. Stamford obliged, sinking back down into his chair with a slight frown creasing his features. 

‘What do you need, Mycroft?’ he asked, his voice soft and obliging. 

‘The Victor’s Ball,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘It’s coming up tomorrow evening, isn’t it?’ 

Mike inclined his head. ‘It is,’ he replied. ‘I was intending to remain here.’ 

‘Won’t it be suspicious if the Head Gamemaker doesn’t show up?’ 

Mike sighed. ‘I don’t think there’s much bother pretending anymore,’ he said. ‘The way you’re heading this thing, there won’t even be a Games next year. So there is no use for a Head Gamemaker. I’m in the Resistance now.’ 

‘Magnussen doesn’t know yet,’ said Mycroft. ‘We can use that.’ 

‘I don’t think Magnussen will tell me anything. If you want information from Magnussen, you’d be better going to Smallwood.’ 

‘Not Magnussen,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘Gregory.’ 

‘Ah.’ 

Mycroft looked down at the table between his hands. Mike was entirely silent, but Mycroft could feel the other man’s eyes on him. 

‘And how are we feeling about that interview?’ asked Mike, his voice soft and imploring Mycroft to confide in him. 

It bit into Mycroft, that request for the secrecy and privacy of his own mind. Shaking his head, Mycroft looked up, sharply, fixing Mike in place. 

‘It was necessary,’ he said, shrugging it off. ‘Gregory must keep himself safe. First and foremost. And it proves my initial theory that the people have been fed Capitol propaganda that I am still dead in an attempt to demonise the Resistance. 

‘What I need to know is whether any in the Districts believe it.’ 

‘They don’t,’ said Mike, inclining his head. ‘I can tell you for certain that they don’t. The people have spent far too long being tricked, manipulated and hurt by the Capitol to believe that rot.’ 

‘You are a fool then, for believing that,’ said Mycroft, softly. ‘People shall believe whatever they want to believe. It is perhaps one of the reasons that I want to go to District Twelve first. They are less likely to believe that I am dead, simply due to the cruelty they have suffered. 

‘But District Five has suffered a far kinder hand from the Capitol that District Twelve. Cementing myself as the current face of the Resistance, of the _future, _begins with creating a stronger base of people who believe.’ 

‘They love you,’ said Mike, softly. 

Mycroft snorted, pushing himself away from the table and stepping over to the wide window looking out from the side of the SIlo, through the forest. It was a falsified image, of course. There wasn’t really a window here, it was just a projection. But it was real enough, for now. ‘Don’t laugh,’ insisted Mike. ‘They do. I’ve seen the way they look at you. They look at you like they revere you.’ 

‘Exactly,’ said Mycroft, turning and raising a finger to Mike. ‘They revere me. They respect me. They do not love me. I do not garner _love, _Mike. I only bring respect, and a distant understanding that I am the person who can help them to victory. 

‘This is why we need Gregory. He is loved. How… how he is _loved. _He is loved by everyone, for he is kind, selfless and brave, without even having to try. He makes people love him because he is their friend. He is their brother, he is their father, he is their son. Their Silver Knight. He is everything they ever hope and dream of being. I should know, for perhaps no-one loves Gregory better than I.

‘I am simply the man who is in charge. The man who tells them what to do. I am the man who inspires them with words, yes. But I do not inspire them with actions. And that is why they will never love me.’ 

Mike sighed, and looked down at his hands. ‘What do you need me to do?’ he asked, his voice quiet. 

‘I need you to go back to the Capitol,’ Mycroft told him. ‘I ask that you go back and you go to the Victor’s Ball. You can see Gregory there. 

‘While you are there, I want you to give him this.’ 

Mycroft handed Mike a small chain, at the end of which was a tiny sword, piercing a circle. On the back Mycroft had carved out a small eye, imprinted with gold, and a tiny copy of his initials. Gregory would hopefully understand the message, yet it was subtle enough that it would likely not be noticed where the gift perused. 

‘Also,’ and Mycroft produced a watch from his pocket, handing it to Mike. ‘If you slide the winder across, the face with seperate to show a recreation of the Resistance’s sign.’ 

‘Thank you,’ said Mike, bowing his head. ‘I’ll do my best, Mycroft.’

‘I don’t doubt you, old friend,’ murmured Mycroft. 

***

Sally awoke to the sound of a beeping from under her pillow. Sitting up, rubbing at her eyes, she fumbled for the small, flashing blue device she’d been given yesterday with her clothes and armour. Her thin pillow hadn’t been enough to cushion the sound from everyone in their little group, and slowly, Maya was fumbling around, stirring from her soft sleep. 

Molly was already sitting up, quietly in a corner feeding Sam, her soft mumbles not waking either Alex or Charlotte, who had both been exhausted from the night previous. 

Maya sat up, looking at Sally through bleary eyes, as Sally cast a look down at the pager. 

Mycroft’s number was flashing up on the screen, along with a message; _Hanger, 0600._ A summons, no doubt. Sally rubbed her eyes, even as she rolled over and pulled the black carapace from under her bed, unfolding it and getting ready to throw it on. There was no such thing as privacy here, dozens of people starting their day all around her. 

She had clearly not been the only one who had been woken early. Other men and women were also gathering their black armour from under their beds, tossing it on over sleeping clothes, over bras and undies alike. The last were the helmets, all gathered under arms. 

‘Where are you going?’ asked Maya, rubbing a hand over her face. 

‘Mycroft wants to see me,’ replied Sally, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her partner’s lips. Maya grinned up at her. 

‘Partners in crime?’ Sally snorted, tossing her bushy hair over her shoulder, throwing one hand on her hip. 

‘Will you be alright to get Alex and Lottie fed?’ 

Maya inclined her head. ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Greg’s supplies are far from being used up. Anyway, Alex and Charlotte both wanted to have a bit of a nosy around the Silo later.’ 

‘Don’t go anywhere you’re not supposed to be,’ cautioned Sally. ‘I don’t think they’ll take too kindly to people being in certain places.’ 

Maya waved off her concerns. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘Go help people.’ 

‘I hope so,’ said Sally, softly. ‘I do.’ 

With a sweep of her hand, she grabbed the helmet, tossing it under her arm before winding her way between the beds. There were still people waking up from their sleep, dark eyes blinking and small heads peering out cautiously from under blankets. The cold was strangely biting, this time of the morning. It really crept into their bones, huddling people near the fires, under their blankets like tiny caves, just their eyes peering out. 

There was an odd respect, this early on. People were quiet, softly snoozing and snoring into their pillows, people who were awake gingerly moving around to get food. Children were strangely quiet. Aside from the odd screaming child, Sally could barely hear them running about and screaming the way they had been when they had first arrived yesterday. 

As quietly as she could, her boots tapping over the hard concrete floor, Sally headed for the hangar door, beyond which she assumed Mycroft was waiting for her. 

She was right. 

As she got closer, stepping through the doors that stood open by only a crack, not letting the bright floodlights of the main hangar stream too far into the sleeping area, the place buzzed with activity. Men and women dressed all in black, with various weapons holstered at their sides, streamed all over the place. Many were being led up into various hovercraft, sitting on the ground like bunch of massive wasps on the petal of a flower. Sally spotted Mycroft, standing up on a glass balcony, also dressed entirely in black. He had both hands fisted over the handrail, Anthea at his side. The dark-haired woman was staring intently down at her data pad, but Sally could see her mouth moving rapidly. 

Next to her, Mycroft’s grey eyes were sweeping over the people streaming about below, his lips tight. Over his shoulder, a long weapon was holstered. Likely a thin sword, just like the one he had used in the Games. Quickly, Mycroft’s eyes fastened on her, and with a long fingered hand he gestured towards a nearby stairwell, which would lead her right up to stand by his side. 

It was surprising to her, suddenly, that this man wanted her to stand so prominently by his side. She hadn’t expected much more than to be a foot soldier, but here he was, turning to her for advice, and asking her opinion. 

Certainly, she knew she was just a placeholder for Greg. She knew that in his mind he didn’t really see her. That was what it felt like, anyway. All their conversations had Greg’s presence woven into them, he was an unseen third party to all their conversations. 

But at the same time, Sally knew that Mycroft did value asking someone like her. Someone who had known Greg, perhaps not as intimately as he had, but at least knew him. 

Quickly, Sally made for the steps, her feet tapping loudly over the concrete, yet barely audible over the sounds of the humming hovercraft. She could see that the hovercraft were also having medical equipment and staff loaded onto them, along with technicians and pilots. 

It was quite the operation, as it seemed like most of the population of the Silo was heading out of the place now, on towards some sort of task to which she wasn’t yet privy. 

But, as she drew alongside Mycroft, trying to stay back from his side a little way, she hoped she would be. 

‘Sally,’ Mycroft greeted her, turning his head, his profile acknowledging her, before he returned to overseeing the preparations. 

‘What’s going on?’ she asked, shrugging the small pack she had been handed on her way through up onto her back, her small pistol holstered at her side. 

‘We’re going to District Twelve,’ replied Mycroft. 

‘Everyone?’ she asked. 

‘Most of the soldiers, and many of our medical staff. We’re only leaving a bare-bones operation here - enough to keep the place running, at least.’ 

‘District Twelve,’ murmured Sally. ‘That will be good. There’s people from District Twelve in the sleeping hangar. I’ve talked to them. It sounds even worse there than in District Ten.’ 

‘It is,’ said Anthea, turning dark eyes on her. ‘The people there are starving.’ 

‘They are,’ said Mycroft. ‘That is why we are going.’ 

‘Where are the people from District Twelve all going to go, though?’ 

‘Some here,’ he replied. ‘Those who would like to join the Resistance army, of course, will come here. Others shall be protected. We are replacing the protections on District tWelve with our own. We also plan to offer them the chance to leave, to go where they choose. Whether that be the forest, or to other Districts, or here, that is their choice. 

‘However, if they would like to stay in their District, then they may. We intend to replace all the Peacekeepers with Resistance soldiers. Not to subdue the people, but to instead protect them from the Capitol’s likely retaliation.’ 

Sally nodded. ‘When do we leave?’ 

‘As soon as possible,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Please, Sally, put on your helmet.’ 

Without questioning the request, Sally quickly slipped the helmet on, over her face. It couldn’t have come sooner. Shortly, Mycroft indicated to Anthea, who nodded, and then quickly entered a few commands onto her data pad. 

Immediately, a siren started up. All the soldiers who were running about beneath them halted, and turned to face Mycroft and herself, up on the balcony. They all fell into lines, slowly, helmets slipping over their faces, and hands going to their chests in a salute of sorts. 

‘Resistance!’ called Mycroft, widening his stance and rolling back his shoulders. Sally could see in the way he began to bear himself that this was Mycroft preparing to inspire. This was Mycroft at the height of his powers; talking to people. 

Leading them. 

It was clear to see that despite what Mycroft had said to her before, he was the leader of this Resistance in all but name and title. He was the leader in all the ways that mattered. 

He was here, he was ready, he was dressed in such a manner that told Sally he wasn’t just an idle onlooker, someone watching from the sidelines, issuing the orders. He would be doing as he was going to ask of his people. 

He would be fighting for their lives, their freedoms, even if he didn’t have to. 

‘Resistance, it may be early, but we rise with the sun today!’ Mycroft called out, spreading his arms wide. ‘Today, we fly for District Twelve. Today, we finally start to liberate our people. We finally give people a choice that was not granted to them before. 

‘Today, we free a District from the clutches of the Capitol. We free them from the obligations they owe, from the poverty that befalls them not by any fault of their own, but under the leash of the Capitol. We free their children from the Reaping.

‘I ask this of you; free any man who wears chains. Raise up any woman fearful for her life. Feed any child who is starving. Show kindness to those who have lost their way. 

‘But do _not_ show mercy to those who would hurt you. Do not show mercy to those who would raise a hand to the innocent. Do not show mercy to an unkind enemy, an enemy _without_ mercy!’ 

A great cheer rose up amongst the men and women below, a stamping of the feet and a holler of pride and energy. They were renewed. 

Where before they had been moving about with haste and a lack of organisation, where before they had moved inefficiently, the floor transformed into a well-oiled machine. Sally could see that the corner of Mycroft’s mouth had turned up in pride, as the soldiers below moved with purpose. 

Above them, the roof of the Silo had been cranked open by massive machinery. The dim light of the dawn was filtering through, the hovercraft below humming to life. Slowly, but then growing ins peed, they all began to file out of the entrance, humming out like a dozen crows and flitting out of Sally’s line of sight. 

Mycroft turned, then, his body moving with purpose. He laid a hand on her shoulder, inclining his head, before sweeping back down the staircase. Sally hurried to follow him, barely noticing that Anthea wasn’t coming with them. 

Fitting his own helmet over his head, Mycroft swept along towards a nearby hovercraft, Sally quickly following in his wake. They filed in along with fifteen other soldiers, other stragglers, taking a seat on the canvas chairs along the outside edges of the hovercraft just as they had done on the way here. 

It was an odd sensation, sitting next to thirty-odd men and women who were dressed exactly like her, covered up with black and holding pistols in small holsters at their sides. Mycroft looked at her, then, turning his head and tapping the side of the helmet twice, insistently. 

Sally followed suit, and immediately her helmet lit up with small lights, indicating the time and other things such as temperature and the locations of the others around her. However, most prominently, Mycroft’s number was flashing up. She tapped the side of the helmet again, and suddenly his voice was in her ear, deep and gravelly. 

‘Are you alright, Sally?’ he asked her, his voice questioning. 

‘Fine,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘That was some speech.’ 

Mycroft didn’t respond, for a moment, but turned away from facing her, looking across the cabin to where the other soldiers were sitting, entirely still. Sally did notice though, out of the corner of her eye, that there were people fidgeting, fingering the edges of their armour as it didn’t fit them quite right. 

‘Thank you,’ said Mycroft, a moment later, his voice soft in a way she hadn’t really heard before. ‘I do not particularly notice or plan what I say,’ he said. ‘I simply… speak. It is perhaps easier that way then planning out my every word. I find that the right words often come to me.’ 

‘You’re a leader, Mycroft. The real leader of this Resistance. You should know that.’ 

Mycroft let out a gusting sigh. 

‘It does happen to be a little more tricky than that, I’m afraid,’ he murmured. ‘There is perhaps more here at play that I must spend more time thinking upon. It may surprise you, but I am rather the new kid.’ 

‘They listen to you. That’s what matters.’ Sally said, nodding her head once, decisively. 

‘I wondered, perhaps, if there was a better way I could have put it. A kinder way.’ 

‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘You’d have to ask Greg. But what you say… about being kind. I’m not really the best person to ask. I was never really the kind one. I was always the one advocating violence. I was the one who couldn’t just forgive.’

There was a moment of silence. Sally bit her lip, and thought about what Mycroft had said. ‘There was one thing,’ she murmured, after a moment. ‘Show mercy to those who have lost their way. Or… something like that.’ 

Mycroft inclined his head with a tiny motion of acknowledgement. 

‘That sort of thing… it’s hard for me. Both my parents are dead because of the Capitol, and that makes me angry. It makes me want to make them hurt just like I did.’ 

‘I do understand the urge,’ said Mycroft. ‘And that is the crux of the issue I face here.’ 

Then, a siren sounded. 

‘We are approaching District Twelve. Perhaps a discussion for another time.’ 

Sally nodded, just as the sounds of beeps in her ear indicated Mycroft had ended the conversation. Sally bit her lip, the time allowing her to think a little on what Mycroft had said. 

It was a fundamental difference between her and Greg. It always had been. The desire for revenge had always burned hot within her. The desire to hate the Capitol and everyone in it for what they had done. 

But it was more difficult than that. 

There were those who deserved kindness. There were those who didn’t deserve mercy, but there were those who should be shown it all the same. Greg had shown her time and time again that cruelty tended to be a cycle. People who were cruel to others led those others to be cruel to yet more people, and on and on it went until everyone was just… _cruel. _

It had always been a hard thing for her. Choosing to be kind when people had been nothing but cruel to her. 

A sudden siren sounded throughout the cabin. It was a loud, echoing thing, rolling over her and sweeping her under with the sound. Around her, everyone was strapping in tightly, holding on to their seats as much as they could. 

She could feel they were descending. It hadn’t felt like very far that they had travelled, but they had gone some distance, she knew that. They were descending now over District Twelve, they had to be. 

Then, the thud came. They had landed. 

Beside her, Mycroft unstrapped himself from his seat, and got to his feet. With a beep, he engaged her once more. ‘Stay beside me,’ he instructed her, before drawing the sword out from his back. 

Instead of being silver, it was instead now a black colour, glowing slightly. He held it in his gloved right hand, and in his left he drew out a small pistol, similar to the one she had been given. 

She did the same, drawing out the pistol instead in her left hand and taking a quick look. Anthea had explained it to her the day previous, simple enough to just point and shoot. In front of hereto eh back of the hovercraft opened up, sliding down in a flash of silver and a whirr, thudding to the ground in a scrape of metal. 

The light beyond was practically blinding, even while her helmet lens seemed to automatically adjust to the sudden influx of light. 

Then, on some sort of unknown signal, they all flooded out of the lowered ramp, down to the ground outside. Sally followed behind Mycroft, who was breathing gently into her helmet, out into what seemed to be the middle of a small town. Behind her she could see the Justice building, similar to the one back in the big town in District Ten, the one they would all gather out the front of and wait to be Reaped. 

She could see that all around her, the fighting had already begun. Above her, the hovercraft she had arrived on was already floating off, the cloaking mechanism causing it to fade into the greying clouds of the dawn above. 

The town square was deserted of civilians, only Peacekeepers were out at this time, patrolling around. They had clearly been disturbed, their helmets had been tossed back over their faces and they all had glowing batons in their hands, fizzing with electricity. 

‘Sally, go and find the people. Take a group with you,’ instructed Mycroft. ‘I am going to take care of the Peacekeepers.’ 

‘Okay,’ Sally acknowledged, along with a sharp nod of her head. 

Clearly, others had also been issued the order, as they fell in beside her, fanning out to head towards the buildings themselves. Everything was dusty, here, disused and in disrepair. All the walls were stained grey with ash and soot, and out the corner of her eye, as she darted through the buildings, she could see that small, thin people also covered in soot were cowering in the alleys and back corners of the place. 

All the people she saw were starving, emaciated and thin, with soot covering their faces and ratty clothing. 

Sally could hear shouting and screams from behind her, as she ran through the alleys, the trampling noises of the others following right behind her. 

They came out on some sort of concourse, with larger, more posh housing. It reminded her of the merchants’ streets from District Ten, the ones they would all be led through on their way to the Reaping. It also reminded her of Maya’s house, the one time that they had been there. 

People were looking out, seeing the flood of black-clad soldiers sweeping through the town. Sally could hear soldiers behind her branching off, heading towards the children and other poor people in the alleys, handing out the rations they had been given, helping them to shelter. 

Other soldiers were rapping on the doors of the merchants, querying them on their stance, and if they were willing, leading a few people to safety and shelter in these well-to-do houses. 

Sally wanted to help. But if this place was anything like District Ten, then there would be a poor area. An area full of the workers, the slaves. 

The miners, in this District. The ones who were forced down tiny shafts to inhale toxic fumes every day, simply to dig out bits of black rock that the Capitol could use to burn in their trains and on their lights and heating, while everyone else got nothing.

District Twelve, especially, seemed to be everything she had feared, and worse. She had always known she had it better than those in other Districts, but this to her was both surprising, and somehow not. She should have known to expect this. 

Further out from the square she went, the poorer the houses seemed to be, until she managed to reach a spot that looked so run down, so worn that the houses seemed to be held together with string and glue. They looked like they would be blown over by a strong breeze. 

Slowing down, Sally stepped through the dirty street, looking around at the wooden, draughty houses. People were peering out the doors, through windows and pointing to them. 

Suddenly, Sally realised that they must be frightening, to these people. All clad in black, with faceless masks covering their features, guns waving at the ready. 

They had encountered a few Peacekeepers, but it seemed Mycroft had drawn a great deal of their fire. All the Peacekeepers they had seen were hurtling towards the square, with barely a moment to stop and realise that Sally was there. 

She knew that behind her, though, the other black-clad Resistance soldiers were striking down the men in white where they stood. 

Now, though, there weren’t any at all. The street was entirely devoid of pure white, instead dirt-streaked people clung to dirt-streaked houses. And what a sight they must seem - people all dressed in black, faceless in every way. She had to help them see her. 

Putting her pistol away, Sally reached for her helmet, and tugged it from her head, baring her face to the grey light of the dawn. Gasps went up from all the watching people, peering around their doorframes. 

‘All of you!’ she called out to the soldiers who had followed her. ‘All of you, take off your helmets!’ 

There was a moment of silence. For a moment, Sally was sure that they weren’t going to listen to her. But then, slowly, one man removed his mask to reveal a bearded face, brown eyes and dark skin, and a head of floppy, brown hair. He smiled at her, then turned his gaze to the people all peeking fearfully out of their houses. 

Other soldiers began to do the same, removing their masks and putting away their weapons, instead reaching for the rations in the packs on their backs. Sally grinned, and turned to look down the end of the dirt road, where a small hut was seated on a clearly rotting wooden foundation. Two girls and their mother were standing in the door, the two girls behind the mother, who was clutching a hand to her chest. 

She had wispy blond hair, all gathered around her face, and her cheeks were sunken. Her two children were clearly quite hungry as well, the dark-haired one eyeing them with suspicion, but the blondeseeming a little more trusting. 

Sally stepped up the rickety stairs of their home, smiling as kindly as she could. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, softly, reaching into her bag and brining out a small packet of dried, sugared fruits. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help you. We all are. We’re the Resistance.’ 


	10. Propaganda

Greg awoke with a jolt in the middle fo the night to feel John’s cold feet tucking in close to his shins, and John himself burrowing his way into Greg’s chest. 

‘John!’ Greg yelped, as the small blond’s hands folded tightly around his arm, tiny fingernails digging sharp ravines into the fleshy part of his forearm. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ 

John shook his head, burrowing if possible deeper into Greg’s shirt. ‘Had a nightmare,’ he said, softly, after a moment. 

‘What was it about?’ 

Greg could feel John was trembling, his tiny body shaking like a leaf blowing about in the wind. John’s fingernails were digging sharply into his forearm, so sharply that Greg was afraid for a moment that they might draw blood.

It was heartbreaking. 

John didn’t reply to his question, just clung desperately to Greg’s side, burying his face in Greg’s shirt. Greg could feel the slow spreading of wetness out from where John had his head. 

‘Johnny? You wanna tell me what’s going on?’ 

John shook his head, again. 

Slowly, Greg raised a hand to rest on John’s back, bending his head so his cheek was resting on top of John’s blond hair. It was an old, comforting gesture that Greg had done for John time and time again. Especially after John’s parents died, when John first came to live with him. 

Greg could remember that so clearly. 

It was just like tonight, just like this. The first time John had really opened up to him, finally telling Greg, trusting Greg with all his worries, all his fears, all his nightmares. What Greg had been less successful in doing was getting John to trust anyone else with the way he was feeling. It had been a difficult battle to fight to get him to trust even Sally. 

Greg never thought he’d wish for that time, but he wished for it now. 

Not for the first time since being dragged out of his home by the Peacekeepers, Greg felt wretchedly alone, wretchedly far from home. He couldn’t even get up and get John a glass of water, because he didn’t know what was outside that door. 

There was an intrinsic fear running deep in his veins, as if underneath the bedding, here, was the only place he was safe. As if claws reached for him over the carpeted floor, through the night air, reaching out for him. As if were he to step off the bed, place his feet on the floor, the tendrils would grab ahold of him and drag him down. 

Where? He didn’t know. 

‘I know,’ Greg began to murmur, rubbing soothing circles on John’s back, the only comfort he had. ‘I know it’s hard. I know you’re scared. But you’re not alone, John. You have me. You will always have me. I promise. 

‘I promised you when I first took you in that I would always keep you safe. I would always be here for you. I left for a little while, but I cam right back to you, didn’t I?’ 

John bobbed his head, his skull bouncing against Greg’s chest bone. 

‘Exactly,’ Greg said, letting the smooth, soft sound of his voice roll over John. He hoped, as it had in the past, the sound of his voice would be enough to soothe the blond. ‘I came back. 

‘Why don’t I tell you a story?’ asked Greg. Hearing no protests, Greg continued. ‘I’ll tell you a story about what’s going to happen. 

‘We’re going to get out of here, you and I. We’re going to run away, we’re going to escape. We’ll make a dashing escape just like the hero in the book I gave you a couple weeks ago. We’ll get to Mycroft, we’ll get to Sally and Molly and Maya, Alex, Sam and Lottie, they’re all waiting for us with Mycroft. We’ll get there, and then we’ll help everyone else who’s trapped here to escape too.’ 

‘We’re going to escape?’ asked John, looking back up at Greg with wide, navy blue eyes. 

Greg nodded, smiling as wide as he could. He didn’t know if John could see it - it was very dark - but he did it all the same. ‘Yeah we are, Johnny,’ he said. ‘We’re going to get out of here.’ 

Greg could feel tears prickling behind his eyes, even as John nodded his head sharply against Greg’s chest. 

‘I don’t like it here,’ said John’s soft voice. ‘I hate it.’ 

‘I know,’ murmured Greg. ‘I hate it here too.’ 

‘I want to go home.’ 

‘I want to go home as well, Johnny. I want to go home so badly.’ Even the thought of home was enough to make Greg’s vision swim, enough to make pressure build at his temples, on the back of his eyes. 

The thought of his little house on the hill above the barn, the cows lowing early in the morning, the clucking of the chickens. The taste of fresh eggs and milk in the morning, the sight of John’s sunbeam of a smile before he would skip out the door. 

Home. 

He wanted to go home. 

The desire to go home burned inside him, sending a tightness through his muscles as if he could get up right now, leap off the building and run all the way home with John in his arms. It was a ridiculous thought. 

Magnussen would stop him. Magnussen was always watching. Magnussen was probably watching them right this very second. 

It was a horrid thought, but it wasn’t unreasonable. He could very easily be peering in through the windows, have hidden cameras in the light fixtures, in all the little spots around the room that were slightly hidden, up in the bookshelves or in other places. It suddenly felt like there were a thousand eyes watching him. 

Greg closed his eyes, squeezing them shut and gritting his teeth, imagining the vestiges of those thoughts and driving them from his mind with the thought of the good things. 

John was here, safe with him in his arms. Sally, Molly, Maya, Alex, Charlotte and Sam were hopefully safe, though he didn’t know it for sure. There wasn’t much longer he would have to spend in the Capitol before they would get on the train and get to visit the Districts, be among the people who would care more, who would understand better the gut-wrenching torture and torment of being used as pretty playthings for the Capitol citizens. 

Mycroft… Mycroft was _alive. _

Greg clung to that thought, just like John clung to him. He wrapped it up tight, pressing all that… that happiness, sadness, anger, joy, elation, frustration, love… that _feeling. _He held it tight. 

It made him feel alive, when everyone around him seemed to want to turn him into something else. Something other than alive. 

An emotionless, unfeeling robot which acted like the figurehead on the prow of a ship, a symbol of something bigger than himself. 

John, Greg realised, had dozed off. He had stopped shaking, finally, the patch of wetness on his chest wasn’t getting any larger. Finally, he was calming down, sinking into sleep. It was enough for Greg to join him, to close his eyes and turn his mind to silent, calming thoughts. 

***

‘Today!’ 

Greg awoke to the sound of Calypso’s frantically screaming voice, as she hysterically banged on his door, her fists drumming a beat into the wood. Shooting upright, Greg sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. Calypso’s scream had woken him from a nightmare which he wasn’t in much of a rush to relive.

Suddenly, the door to his room slammed open, and like a butterfly Calypso flounced her way in. She has bright gold hair today, and a curly fringe over golden mascara and eyeliner. Her face was spread in a wide grin, the gold lipstick around her mouth spreading, and the bright red dots of blush on her cheeks almost spotty. 

‘Greg!’ she practically screamed in his ear. ‘Greg, get up, get up, get up!’ 

‘I’m up,’ Greg replied, raising an eyebrow at her. 

Beside him, curled into a corner of the bed where he had laid all night, John was still sleeping. Face down into the pillow, his hair a messy tousle of blond, glinting in the sunlight, John snored. It was as if he hadn’t even heard Calypso’s frantic screaming, as if he’d actually slept through the racket. 

Greg leaned over, placing a hand on his head. 

John had slept through it. It was almost a superpower how he’d managed it. 

‘What’s John doing here?’ asked Calypso, spotting the small child in a pause between her fluttering attentions. 

Greg sighed. ‘He had a nightmare.’ 

Calypso cooed, finally slowing down and clasping her hands in front of her mouth, before fluttering over to rest a hand with fingernails the length of her fingers themselves on John’s head. It was an almost disturbing sight, the knife-like nails painted a dazzling gold, resting on top of blond locks. 

Greg looked away. 

‘What time is it?’ he grunted out.

‘Six,’ replied Calypso, fluttering her hands. ‘And we’re already behind my schedule. Come on, come on, get up, get up.’

Flopping back into the pillow with a groan, Greg threw a hand over his eyes. 

Back home, he used to get up at this time. Right now, though, he just didn’t have the motivation. The Capitol felt like it was sucking the energy right out of him, like an old woman sucks the marrow of a bone. It had always seemed easier to him, back home, getting up out of bed and getting to work. 

Calypso let out a tut of annoyance, and grasped Greg by the forearm, tugging him upright again. Greg, limp as a ragdoll, went; looking at her with dazed eyes. ‘What do we need to do?’ 

‘So much!’ she fluttered, ‘So much! It’ll take all day to put together your makeup, to get you both into your outfits. And we simply must go to lunch out in the city, as well!’ 

‘How about we start with breakfast?’ Greg tried, smiling a creased eye smile at her. Beside him, he could feel John stirring awake, rolling over and sighing, swallowing in his light snooze.

Calypso clapped her hands together. ‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘Breakfast! Right away!’ 

With that, she flounced from the room. Collapsing to the bed, Greg let out a groan.

***

Breakfast that morning was a tense affair. This, of course, seemed to sail right over Calypso’s head, as she fluttered about entirely obliviously. Beside him, John was picking through the bread and pastry he had fished from the table. Greg himself was peeling an orange, silently, in tiny little strips, digging his nails in and stripping it off before tossing it onto his plate. 

Dimmock had barely rolled out of bed before he had begun pouring liberal amounts of a strong smelling, orange alcohol into his orange juice. Beside him, Clara was fiddling with something in her lap that Greg couldn’t see, but it was making a soft clicking noise. 

‘What’re you doing?’ he asked her. She looked up at him in surprise, as if she hadn’t realised he had noticed what she was doing. 

She shook her head. ‘Just… a piece of your costume. For tonight.’ 

Greg nodded, sharply, suddenly regretting asking. 

‘Oh, on that topic, how are we dressing him, Clara darling?!’ asked Calypso, her voice bouncy and full of excitement. 

‘It’s a surprise,’ Clara replied, smiling with all her teeth. Her eyes didn’t smile. 

‘What happens after the party tonight?’ asked John, his voice quiet.

‘We’re all going to get on the train,’ replied Dimmock, his head down in his cup of juice. ‘And we’re gonna go around to all the Districts.’ 

‘Oh, the Victory tour?’ asked John. 

He looked excited, his eyes shining. ‘I can’t wait to see all the other Districts!’ 

Dimmock smiled, tightly, his forehead creasing. ‘Mmm. Exciting.’ he muttered. 

Greg cleared his throat, returning to picking away at the ragged edge of the peeled orange he was slowly working on. He didn’t feel hungry - his stomach was flipping and turning. 

He had seen pictures before, on the tele-screen, of what the Victor’s Ball was like. It was filled with all the Capitol citizens, flouncing about in painted faces with massive costumes. The President would be there, too. It was held at his house, after all. 

There was going to be food, and dancing, and everyone was supposed to have a good time. Everyone except the Victors, of course. 

It was like a Tribute parade, really, except for the Victors instead. They were parading them out in front of the rich and famous of the Capitol, so that the Capitol citizens could swoon and touch them as if they were museum pieces. Then, they could go home to their families and talk about the exotic people they had seen, the wonderful Victors of the Hunger Games who were just so _quaint. _Greg honestly couldn’t imagine anything worse. 

Greg had had enough of this breakfast, with its tense silence, and with Calypso’s sickeningly sweet joy over the party they were going to attend tonight. He got up, dropping the half-peeled orange to the plate. Leaving the room, he immediately went straight for the stairs. 

Darting up them, as if there was fire on his heels, Greg pushed the door open. It slammed back onto the stop with a crash, and a groan of concrete. 

Outside, the clouds were hovering over the horizon, rumbling ominously. The sky above looked like a canvas, painted a dim greying colour. It washed all the light from the tall spires of the Capitol, turning them to shards of greying teeth, sticking up from the ground as if they were trapped in some great animal’s maw. 

The trees in the garden, the grass, the flowers, they all looked greyer somehow in the lack of sunlight beating down on them. Greg could see even more clouds washing in over the mountains surrounded the Capitol, rolling over the tops of the white peaks. 

For a moment, he wondered where they were coming from. 

Looking down at his feet, Greg ambled aimlessly through the garden, towards the other side where there was a small bench looking out over towards the Tribute Avenue where the Tribute parade was held. 

He remembered that moment for a second as if it were yesterday. It was one of the first times he had seen Mycroft in person, rolling out of those gates on top of chariot, dressed regally like a king in purple and gold finery, his high cheekbones framing brilliant, slate-grey eyes that observed everything around him with intelligence and wit unmeasurable. 

Twisting the fingers of his left hand with his right, Greg looked away, sharply, pacing back and forth on top of the tower. He felt like a lion, trapped in a cage, for a moment. All he wanted to do was run. 

Yet there wasn’t even the comfort he had before of knowing he wasn’t going to be here for very long. That soon he could run and hide, and even though he was likely going to be killed, there was still a chance to fight for his life. 

Here, it just felt like a waiting game. 

That was, of course, always the purpose of the Games. They were a spark of hope in a bleak future, a single spark resting on glowing coals. It was an old trick, to be sure. Yet an effective one. A single spark of hope to keep people working hard, in the hope that one day, one day, they would be free. The purpose of the Victor had always been that… that spark of hope that kept people working just like the Capitol wanted. 

Suddenly, there was a bang of a door, and Dimmock was out in the garden, rushing towards Greg. He looked frazzled, his hair a mess around his head, and his eyes filmed over with the haze of alcohol. 

‘Dimmock?’ Greg questioned, looking at the other Victor. Dimmock reached him, panting for breath. 

‘Greg, there’s been news from the Districts,’ he began. ‘Mycroft and the Resistance have taken over District Twelve. You need to see this.’ 

Out of his pocket Dimmock pulled a small device, a data pad with a glowing image, paused just at a single moment. 

‘Where did you get this?’ asked Greg. ‘I thought the Capitol wasn’t going to let us see anything.’ 

‘That’s one disadvantage of the Network,’ replied Dimmock. ‘They want all the people in the Districts to be able to see the Games and the Victory Tour and all their propaganda. The Resistance has got into that. They can broadcast whatever they want and it’s hard for the Capitol to stop it.’ 

Dimmock lifted up the data pad, letting Greg see what was on the display. It was an image of Mycroft, standing on a stage in front of the Justice building. Greg barely recognised it, but the large number twelve on the door behind Mycroft showed him it was in District Twelve. Beneath Mycroft, standing in front of the hastily erected stage, were the people of District Twelve. They were poor, covered in soot, but they were all watching Mycroft avidly. 

Greg could see the fire of hope in the way they were standing, the way they had smiles adorning their faces, despite the soot on their faces, despite their thin frames and ragged clothes. 

But next to Mycroft, standing to his right, was Sally. She was wearing a black uniform, her bushy hair messy from being inside a helmet, which she was holding under her arm. She was smiling, widely, at the people of District Twelve. 

And she was safe. 

She was safe, with the Resistance. 

It was such a sudden relief to Greg that he felt his stomach twist, his knees go weak. Sally was safe, she looked happy, she looked like she had a purpose, finally. She looked like she was serving a purpose bigger than herself, and that she was helping the Resistance. 

And if Sally was safe… everyone else must be as well. Everyone else must be safe and well with Mycroft, all helping to push back, to help those who needed it. 

‘Sally,’ whispered Greg, reaching out as if he could touch her through the screen, touch her smiling cheeks, her bushy hair. ‘Sally… she’s safe!’ 

With a grin, he looked up at Dimmock. ‘She’s safe, she’s with Mycroft, they’re all _safe!’ _

‘Yes, very good, very good,’ Dimmock was frowning, his brows coming down over his eyes. ‘Very good for her. Good for your little friends. Not good for us.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘The more shit like this you see,’ said Dimmock, ‘the more people in the Capitol begin to be convinced that Mycroft is actually still alive. The more people in the Districts think that Mycroft is actually, by some miracle, alive. The more people think he’s alive, the more Magnussen will need you dead.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I can’t. It won’t be like that. Magnussen won’t kill me just because Mycroft’s alive.’ 

Dimmock reached up, and boxed Greg around the ears, his face contorting into a mask of rage. ‘Have you been paying attention, Lestrade?!’ he snapped out. ‘For Magnussen, it’s risk and reward. Are you more of a risk or a reward alive or dead?

‘Think about it, Lestrade,’ Dimmock raised a hand, shaking it in Greg’s face as if he could get Greg to understand. ‘Alive, you present an active and real risk of being a symbol for the Resistance, a rallying cry around which all the Districts can unite in a way they haven’t done since the Dark Days. But alive you also represent an opportunity for Magnussen to manipulate the love of his people. You can get information from people in the Capitol for him. You can make people want to spend time in a place he can control. That’s what the Victor’s Ball tonight is for. He can listen in on the conversations of the Capitol’s rich and powerful.

‘But dead… dead, you present yourself as an opportunity to turn you into a martyr for the cause of the Capitol. With you dead, he can turn the Districts against one another, accusing each other of killing you. He can demoralise the Resistance. But dead, you can turn the people of the Capitol against him. Accusing him of not protecting you well enough against the barbarians of the Districts. Risk… reward. Don’t you see?’ 

‘So what?’ asked Greg. ‘He can’t kill me now. There’s no one who he could use as a scapegoat.’ 

Dimmock threw his hands up in the air with a sigh of frustration. ‘That doesn’t matter. With enough propaganda, he can find a scapegoat. The only thing that tips it over for him, the only thing that ensures he keeps you alive is that you are a pressure-point for the leader of the Resistance.’ 

‘Mycroft?’ 

Dimmock inclined his head. ‘Holmes is not the leader of the Resistance. But yes, that too. It was obvious Holmes cared for you in the Games. But is more about how precious you are to Culverton Smith.’ 

‘What do you mean? Who’s Culverton Smith? Why am I important to him?’ 

‘The actual leader of the Resistance,’ said Dimmock, with a wave of his hand. ‘And you are important to him because of who you are. Who your father was.’ 

‘Why do you keep saying that?!’ demanded Greg. ‘Why does it matter so much who my Dad was? My Dad was a Peacekeeper, he wasn’t a rebel. He only gave up being a Peacekeeper when he married my mum.’ 

‘That’s a lie,’ Dimmock muttered. ‘I don’t know who told you that, but that’s a lie.’ 

‘Then you tell me!’ demanded Greg. ‘Tell me who he was, since you knew him so well!’ 

Dimmock shook his head, ‘It’s too dangerous for you to know. It’s not something I can tell you now.’ 

Greg threw up his hands in frustration, turning on one heel to go back to pacing back and forth. The grey clouds overhead were roiling, as if mirroring his mind. 

There were all these questions, all these things he wanted to know but didn’t know the answer to. He needed answers. He needed to know what was going on. He felt, for a moment, like he was entirely blind. Like he was stumbling around in the dark, trying to feel for the light switch, but he couldn’t find it. It felt almost like it was at the tips of his fingers, but the moment he thought he could finally reach for it, the moment he thought he could grasp ahold of it, it was gone. 

And it was back to that trapped feeling. 

He couldn’t get out of the vice around his leg, he couldn’t get away and try to find some answers, because he was stuck here. 

‘Lestrade,’ said Dimmock, his voice short and sharp. ‘Listen to me. You need to be careful. You need to think about what you’re gonna say tonight to all those people who are coming out just to see you.’ 

‘You need me to _lie,’ _snapped Greg. ‘You need me to lie again and again and then lie some more. What if I don’t wanna do that shit?! What if I don’t wanna turn out like _you!’ _

Dimmock clenched his jaw. 

‘That, you fucking idiot, is what it means to be a Victor,’ Dimmock snapped out, angrily. ‘That is what it means. You don’t get out of here, don’t you get it? You don’t get out of here, you don’t ever get off the train, you don’t ever get to end the parade. 

‘You are a Victor, and you’ll always be a tool for Magnussen to use to get information. Everyone in the Capitol wants you. Everyone in the Capitol wants to get in your bed. 

‘He’s going to ask you soon, I know it. He’s going to make you hop from bed to bed, because you are desirable, just so he can get information. He’s going to make you do a thousand interviews, be on the cover of a thousand magazines, star in a thousand propaganda videos. To make sure you’re _useful. _And you know who he’s going to hold over your head? Your precious little blond boy.’ 

Greg shook his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his temples. It was making his head hurt, his eyes burn, his stomach roil uncomfortably. The idea that he would be used in propaganda just to suppress the people, that he would be rolled out like a set of nice silverware to impress the Capitol citizens, it made his very veins hurt. 

He wanted to scream out, _I am not a pawn. _But he couldn’t. 

Because that was what he was. And if he wanted to stay alive, if he wanted to keep John alive, if he wanted to help Mycroft, he had to be, for a time. 

Dimmock’s words burnt their way into his head, scalding through his veins. It wasn’t fair. The deep injustice of what Dimmock was asking him to do… no…. not Dimmock. The deep injustice of what the _Capitol _was forcing him to do, the kind of person that he needed to be to be able to do this went so deeply against what Greg had always valued in himself that he wanted to cry. 

Then, a sudden realisation lit him up. A sudden realisation that struck Greg through, as if a literal lightbulb had turned on inside his mind. He turned to Dimmock raising a finger. ‘You don’t think it’s going to work,’ he said. 

Dimmock shook his head. ‘What?!’ 

‘The rebellion,’ said Greg. ‘You don’t think it’s going to work. You think it’s futile. You don’t think Mycroft or anyone else has a chance of beating the Capitol.’ 

Greg could see the other Victor’s jaw working. His muscles jumped under his sallow skin sharply, the fingers on Dimmock’s hand curling into a fist. ‘You want the truth?’ 

Nodding sharply, Greg bit into his lip. 

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think this is going to work. I think you’re a fool for thinking it might. Hope is dead. It’s nothing more than a propaganda tool that the Capitol is using to keep us working. The only thing we can do is keep ourselves alive.’ 

‘Why do you think that?!’ demanded Greg. ‘Why do you think we’ll fail? Mycroft… Mycroft could change the world if he wanted to. He is changing the world. He’s saved all those people in District Twelve!’ 

‘And you think he’ll come and save you like some sort of dashing hero, don’t you?’ Dimmock bit out. ‘Well, sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t believe in miracles. I’m just trying to keep myself alive, and I’m only keeping you alive because I owe it to your old man. So let me do that, and if you later on want to go ahead and sacrifice yourself on the alter of some boy you fell in love with’s foolish dream, then be my guest. But it won’t be my fucking fault.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘You’re wrong. I believe in what Mycroft said to me. I believe in what he said on the Network. I believe in the world he’s trying to build. And I will help him.’ 

‘Lestrade, you can’t help Holmes!’ snapped Dimmock. ‘Not where you are right now. You’re being a foo—‘ 

Suddenly, the hum and swish of a hovercraft materialising overhead sounded. Greg looked up to see that a grey hovercraft had materialised overhead, and was bearing down on them, heading towards the landing pad nearby. A wave of hot air washed over them both, and Greg took several sharp, sudden steps back to stand beside Dimmock, thrusting his hands behind him, and digging his nails into the heels of his palms. 

Beside him, Dimmock swore softly under his breath. This wasn’t good. 

The back of the hovercraft opened up, and out stepped Magnussen, followed by a camera crew and a group of Peacekeepers as security. They were all wearing the golden swirls that Greg had come to realise were the Presidential seal on their shoulders. They were all holding guns at diagonals across their bodies, loaded and ready. 

‘President Magnussen,’ Dimmock bit out. ‘What a pleasure. Have you come to join us for breakfast?’ 

Magnussen sent a sharp look in Dimmock’s direction, before looking back at Greg, his small, beady eyes flashing. In the grey light, all the colour was sapped from Magnussen’s already colourless skin, making the man look sallow and grey. It almost looked as if he had the skin of a shark. 

‘Gregory Lestrade,’ said Magnussen, ‘My Silver Knight.’ 

Magnussen’s voice felt oily on Greg’s skin, somehow. It was almost as if the man’s voice was sweeping through the space, washing over his skin and leaving a film. Greg had to resist the urge to shudder, to take a few more steps back. 

‘What do you want, Magnussen?’ Greg bit out, lacking the patience to even attempt a facade of nicety. Dimmock shot a look at him, as if he was questioning the decisions Greg was making. To be fair, he was right that it was likely a bad choice he was making. 

‘I require your assistance with a little… task,’ murmured Magnussen, stepping closer and reaching out with a hand, suddenly, to grab Greg’s own hand. He lifted it, and Greg was about to pull it from Magnussen’s grip, but over Magnussen’s shoulder he saw one of the Peacekeepers lift his gun, slightly, twitching the barrel in a suggestive movement. 

Lifting Greg’s hand, Magnussen brought it up to eye level, as if he could inspect the hand and see the red blood running beneath the skin through those small, wired spectacles of his. His eyes peered out, looking between Greg’s face and the hand. 

‘Let us begin, shall we?’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Greg, his voice coming out weaker than he wanted it to. Already, his stomach was roiling with nausea, his head hurt, and the backs of his eyes prickled with unshed tears. 

‘I am here to video you,’ said Magnussen. ‘You see, this morning, rumours have been spreading through the Capitol. Problematic rumours. You understand, of course, that I cannot have that.’ 

‘If you’ve got a reputation problem, _Magnussen, _maybe you should deal with it yourself,’ Greg got out, trying to tug his hand free to Magnussen’s oily, sweat-soaked grip. Magnussen didn’t let go, however, and those beady eyes flashed dangerously behind those tiny spectacles. 

‘You are going to help me, _Silver Knight,_’ said Magnussen, ‘Otherwise…’

There was a moment of silence. Magnussen dropped Greg’s hand, suddenly, and Greg tugged it back towards himself, tucking both hands securely into the pockets of the loose sleeping pants he was wearing. 

‘Perhaps it is time for some motivation.’ 

Then, a silent signal. 

Another Peacekeeper walked out onto the roof, this one from the stairwell leading down to the lower levels. He tugged with him John’s small form, his blond hair dull in the grey light, and his navy blue eyes wide and panicked. 

‘John!’ Greg cried out, looking past Magnussen to where John’s arm was being held by an uncaring, gloved hand. ‘No, please…’ 

Magnussen was smiling, the grin morphing his features into an unkind imitation. ‘Are you listening, Silver Knight?’ 

Greg, shaking, looked at the man, his lips trembling and his arms feeling as if they were made of jelly. He nodded, sharply, untrusting of his own voice. 

‘Good,’ said Magnussen. He made another gesture, and the camera man stepped forwards. Along with it, he brought another woman, who was holding a prompter with flashing words lighting up on it. ‘This will be easier than you think it will be.’ 

The woman held up the prompter, and Greg quickly glanced at the flashing words. Above the camera-man, another man brought out a device, which flashed up a glowing projection of what, presumably, was the Network. 

‘Please begin reading out the words on the prompter, Mr Lestrade,’ instructed Magnussen, his hands held evenly by his side. 

Greg tightened his jaw, grinding his teeth, as tears welled in his eyes. Beside him, he knew Dimmock had backed away, was standing on the other side of the garden, watching with wide eyes. John was looking at him, desperate, his blue eyes filling with tears, and massive tears rolling down his cheeks. 

‘People of Panem,’ Greg started, ‘We have heard horrible reports this morning of terrible violence in District Twelve. Terrible violence, perpetrated by a group calling themselves the Resistance, and using a false image of the fallen Capitol hero Mycroft Holmes as propaganda for their violence. 

‘They are a terrorist group,’ Greg managed to get out, his eyes not on the camera, but darting between the prompter and John. He knew his hands were shaking, his voice was weak. 

This was torture. It felt like torture to see this, to see Magnussen’s smug, smirking face, to see John desperately scared, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

He knew these words would reach the group. He knew these words would only fuel dissent and disunity amongst the Districts, at a time when Mycroft needed their help. 

‘Mycroft Holmes is dead. Mycroft Holmes died in my arms, and this terrorist group is breaking my heart by falsely using his image,’ Greg viciously suppressed the tears, the roiling of his stomach. ‘This terrorist group seeks to uproot our way of life. They seek to do damage as they please, they do not seek to help in any way. If anyone who has seen any member of this terrorist group, or has any information about them, please approach a Peacekeeper.’ 

John was trembling, violently, shaking like a leaf, the barrel of a gun digging into the small boy’s side. Clara and Calypso had both walked out onto the roof, and now had their hands up, as two Peacekeepers pointed guns directly at them. Magnussen was smiling, regarding the whole scene with an odd sort of pleasure. It was disgusting. 

Greg closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think of anything to give himself strength for the words he had to say. He clasped those precious memories of peace, precious memories of Mycroft and Sally and everyone else, of John in the quiet evenings after all the work was done for the day, the beauty of the sun setting over a fallen skyscraper, he clutched it tight. He pressed it hard underneath his heart, and sucked in a breath. 

‘Tonight, at the Victor’s Ball, I along with my fellow Victors will be joining the residents of the Capitol in a wonderful celebration of unity and strength of our nation of Panem. Panem, with the Districts as its’ body and the Capitol as its’ head will survive and thrive despite any obstacles. We will not be bowed into submission by the threat of terrorism.

‘Panem is one.’ 


	11. Ball

‘John?’ Greg’s voice was still trembling, he knew it. His stomach was still turning uncomfortably, and he needed time to think, to process what had happened. But there was no time for that right now. 

Right now, John needed him. 

The small blond had done nothing for the last one minutes other than stare at the blank wall across the living room, shaking, his eyes blank and his hands sweating, clasped around his lower forearms. 

Greg had wrapped a hand around his small shoulders, pulling the tiny boy into his side. It was no use. John was curled into a ball, his arms wrapped around his knees, his face entirely pale. There were already bruises forming on his upper arms from where the Peacekeepers had grabbed him, dragging him up the stairs to confront Greg. 

Dimmock, across the room, was staring tensely at his data pad, his brows low over his eyes. Calypso was sitting in the corner of the room, somehow wilted, her eyes downcast, and her mascara running from tears. Clara was on the floor, leaning back agains the far wall, her face to the heavens. 

‘The broadcast has gone out,’ murmured Dimmock. ‘Everyone will have seen it. They retouched your face, Greg, so you don’t look so panicked.’ 

Greg didn’t know how to respond, just pressed John tighter against his side. Dimmock got to his feet, suddenly, beginning to lope long paces back and forth on the carpet. ‘This is dangerous, Lestrade. Too dangerous.’ 

‘You think I don’t know that?!’ snapped Greg, suddenly boiling over. 

Beside him, John jolted, violently, letting out a tiny whimper of distress. Immediately, Greg tried to comfort him, rubbing circles on his son’s back, to no avail. John was silent, his entire body shivering as if he had been left outside in the middle of winter. 

Clara got to her feet, suddenly, her hands twisting in front of her. ‘We… we don’t have time for this. You need to get ready. Both of you. Greg, you gotta get into the outfit. We need to get to the ball tonight — we don’t have a choice.’ 

‘I don’t… I don’t want to go to some fucking _party,_’ Greg bit out, clenching his jaw sharply. 

‘You have to go, Lestrade,’ said Dimmock. ‘It’ll be too suspicious if you don’t. People will notice. Magnussen will notice.’

‘We could leave,’ tried Greg, ‘Everyone’ll be at the party. We can just sneak out of the Capitol. Get through the mountains.’ 

‘Impossible,’ snapped Dimmock. ‘Ridiculous. We won’t get through the mountains, and the Peacekeepers will stop us before we even reach the edge of the city. Not to mention the cameras. There are cameras everywhere, Lestrade.’ 

Greg bit his tongue, looking down, trying to tuck John tighter against his side. For the first time in ten minutes, John shuddered, sharply, and then turned to grasp ahold of Greg’s forearm. ‘Want to go home,’ John said, his voice shaking. ‘I wanna go home, Greg, I wanna go home.’ 

‘I know,’ Greg replied, leaning down to press a kiss into John’s blond locks. ‘I want to go home as well. But we can’t.’ 

Clara stepped over to Greg, then, sitting down on John’s other side and wrapping an arm around them both. Greg looked up at her, thankfully. She looked pale, as well, her eyes downcast and her hair messy and tangled around her head. But she tried to smile back, rubbing a comforting circle into John’s back. ‘It’ll be okay, John. I promise. We’ll get you home.’ 

Sighing, Greg leant back, stretching out his legs. He had felt wound tight, adrenaline pumping through his veins, since the moment the Peacekeeper had dragged John out onto the roof. 

He had felt so panicked, in that moment, as if he was being pushed back out into the Arena to be hunted, again, except this time it was John by his side, not just Suzie. The fear had bitten deep into him, sinking its claws into his heart and pulling. It was almost like Magnussen had reached his slimy fingers into Greg’s chest himself and found the very heart of him, pulled it out through his chest and held it in his hand. 

Outside, there was a crack of lightning. 

John jolted, again, violently. 

Greg didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to get up, to try and do anything. But he knew he had no choice. Magnussen was going to be at the party tonight. It would be too suspicious if Greg didn’t show up. He had to. 

Magnussen had turned the cameras off as soon as he was happy with Greg’s performance, had left without another word. His hovercraft had vanished into the sky once more, taking with it the Peacekeepers. 

John had collapsed to the grass of the rooftop garden the second the Peacekeeper had let him go, his tiny body shaking like a leaf. He’d curled up into the foetal position, his eyes filling with tears. 

It had bit into Greg to the bone to see his son like that — usually so strong, so resilient, but the feel of the cold metal of a gun barrel pressing into his temple had been enough to undo him. It had been enough to undo _Greg. _

Dimmock halted, then, turning to the four of them, and clapping his hands together, sharply. ‘Enough, Lestrade. Pull yourself together!’ he snapped, his jaw working. 

Greg shook his head, looking away.

‘You are letting him win, Lestrade,’ Dimmock said, his voice scratchy. ‘You’re letting him beat you down. This is what Magnussen does best. It’s what Magnussen has always done best. He finds the ways you are weak, he takes ahold of them and he uses them against you. Whenever you are weak, he is there. Trust me, I know.’ 

Greg looked up then, to see that Dimmock was looking down at his feet, more diminished than Greg had ever seen him. It was a shocking sight — Dimmock had always been hardened, tempered through alcohol and the sight of countless Tributes, young boys and girls being sent into an Arena just to die. 

For a moment, Greg could understand where Dimmock had always been coming from. To him, Dimmock had always seemed so far removed from where Greg had always been. Dimmock looked out for himself, first. He always tried to find the easy way, the path of least resistance for himself, and for no-one else. Greg couldn’t imagine, really, being in that position. 

He had always thought of what was best for everyone else. But when everyone that you had to care about, who you were supposed to care about by the cruel circular design of the Games, designed to torment even those who were supposedly the winners, died… well. 

It was almost excusable, the selfish behaviour. 

It made Greg think back to his first time on the train to the Capitol with Suzie and Dimmock there. He remembered waiting for Dimmock to help them, but watching Dimmock instead pour endless amounts of strong-smelling spirits out of his seemingly never-ending flask into a small cup. It made Greg think about the other Victors he’d seen over the years on their Victory tours; drunk, violent, addicted to morphling, or any of the other circus of drugs so readily available if you knew where to look. 

Dulling the pain. 

It was something Greg had thought about doing, time and again. How easy it would have been for him to fall into that pattern, to fall into drinking alcohol to try and forget. 

But he had always chosen not to. He had chosen not to because John needed him, Sally needed him, _people_ needed him. 

For someone who felt like he wasn’t needed by anyone — it would be easy to fall into that. 

So it was an uncomfortable feeling, such an almost cliched sentiment, but Dimmock was right. This biting feeling, this feeling of Magnussen creeping into his soul, sinking his slimy fingers in deep — that was the way Magnussen wanted him to feel. It was the way Magnussen would work himself in, and make Greg a pawn. 

Greg gathered himself, taking a deep breath. He had to compose himself, put himself back together form the pieces that Magnussen had tried to rip apart. His self had to be a seperate, secular thing. 

He had to stand. 

The rebellion had begun with him, it had begun with his sense of self and purpose. He would have to rely on that now. 

Mycroft had seen it in him. 

Drawing his shoulders back, Greg got to his feet, and nodded sharply at Dimmock. Clara also turned, seeing that Greg had got up, and let a soft smile crease her drawn features. She reached out, resting hands on his shoulders. 

‘We can do this, Greg. I know we can. It’s not going to be easy. But we’ll get there.’ Leaning in, Greg nodded, pressing his forehead against hers, sharply, before turning back to John. 

He reached out to John, grasping his son’s small shoulders, forcing the blond to look up at him. ‘Do you remember when I told you to be brave, John?’ he asked him. 

John nodded his head, sharply. ‘Before you left for the Games.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Greg, nodding. ‘Well, we have to be brave. We have to learn how to be brave in a whole new way. We have to go to the party, and we have to smile, and we have to wear a fancy costume. And we have to be brave. So brave. Like soldiers. We can both be soldiers today.’ 

‘I don’t know,’ whispered John. ‘I’m scared, Greg, I’m scared.’ 

‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ murmured Greg, reaching out to lay a hand on John’s cheek. ‘So am I.’ 

A small smile twitched John’s features, the first one Greg had seen in a while. It was a bright light, like a sunbeam breaking through grey clouds, like spun gold details woven into a dress, like a sunflower in the middle of a rocky outcropping. 

Clara cleared her throat. ‘If we’re going to make it, we’re all going to have to get dressed now. Greg, John, I have your outfits.’ 

Greg turned to see that Clara had brought out a pair of hangars, from which were hanging their costumes for the night.

As usual, Clara had entirely outdone herself. Hanging from the left hangar was a suit done in silver and grey, with a slight scale pattern reminiscent of armour. However, instead of the normal shoulders and chest of a suit, there was a metal plate of armour, and the arms were segmented silver gauntlets, shining in the sunlight. There was even a cape, a long, purple thing hanging over one shoulder. The suit also had touches of purple here and there, a purple tie, slight purple details in the threading. 

The thing that caught Greg’s eye the most, however, was the symbol stamped into the chest plate of the metal armour. John symbol, the little sword piercing the circle, was stamped on the front. 

For a moment, it struck Greg. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Mycroft, and the rest of the Resistance, had taken on that symbol. It was the sign of the Resistance. 

He could wear it openly, though. It would make sense for him to be wearing it. It would even make sense for the people around him to be wearing it. He could see it in the outfits Clara was handing out to everyone else. John had a small pin on the lapel of his tiny suit, that matched the little sword symbol. 

It was the same for Dimmock, who’s outfit featured a pocket square with the symbol worked into it in bright silver thread, and both Calypso and Clara held jewellery that featured the symbol prominently, Clara in her earrings and necklace, and Calypso in her hairpins and bracelets, as well as the brooches they had pinned to the fronts of their dresses. 

Greg inclined his head. 

‘Into battle,’ he murmured, trying not to let his hands shake. 

***

Sally found Mycroft, finally, in a tucked away corner of the Silo. He was standing in front of a wall of screens, desks surrounding him with computer monitors set up and glowing softly. Outlined by the bright blue of the screen in front of him, Mycroft looked astonishingly tall, casting a long shadow across the room. 

Both his arms were by his sides, and he seemed to be looking up at the screen contemplatively, as if waiting for something. 

‘Are you alright?’ she asked him, coming up behind him and laying a hand on his shoulder. The ginger-haired general hadn’t taken off his armour, he was still dressed in the black carapace of a Resistance soldier. The only thing he seemed to have taken off was the long rapier he had carried into the District with him, which was resting in its sheath on a nearby chair. 

‘I am perfectly fine,’ he replied. ‘Thank you for asking.’ 

‘What are you waiting for?’ she asked, instead, trying to get a real answer out of him.

Sometimes, she could read Mycroft. Sometimes, she could see in him bright, brilliant emotions dancing across that brilliant mind. But other times, times like this, when he was statuesque, she couldn’t see him. She couldn’t see anything about him that betrayed any sort of inner turmoil. If she didn’t know any better, if she didn’t know everything that had happened, she would think him entirely immoveable. 

‘There is sure to be a response from the President,’ he replied. ‘They will know what we have done for District Twelve.’ 

Sally wanted to ask a question so badly. She wanted to ask him what he was thinking, what their response would be this time, what propaganda he thought they would pump out. 

Instead; ‘You never did tell me. What are you guys doing to make sure they can’t take District Twelve back?’ 

‘Force fields,’ he replied. ‘We have some very clever engineers who worked out a way to ensure no cloaked hovercraft could approach the District without us knowing about it. All the hovercrafts are trackable, if you know which frequency to tap into.’ 

Sally nodded. ‘Clever.’ 

Mycroft hummed his reply. 

Sally turned her eyes to the screen. It was clearly tapped into the Network, the flashing symbol of the Capitol on the screen, bright in gold and turning about almost hypnotically. ‘How long have you been standing here?’ 

‘Since we returned,’ he replied. ‘I must be aware. I must be here for their response.’ 

‘You don’t have to, you know,’ murmured Sally. ‘You can go rest. You deserve it.’ 

‘Not yet,’ came the soft reply. Mycroft’s voice was as smooth as silk, his frame immutable. ‘Perhaps in time.’ 

Time. What did that mean? It was inscrutable, as ever. 

Sometimes, Sally thought she knew Mycroft. There were moments, over the last few days, where she felt like Mycroft’s eyes were windows to his soul. But then the windows were shuttered. 

Every time, it felt like she was gaining some sort of insight into the man. Yet, when he shuttered himself off, pulling up that wall of ice, she couldn’t see it anymore. And it became all the clearer to her that she saw what he let her see. There was no other truth. 

Mycroft had incomparable self control. He was like iron, able to shift and morph his face to suit his every need. 

Yet there was something distinctly human about him. There was something so distinctly human, so fundamentally _real _about the way he cared for Greg, the way this immovable man reached out for her best friend as if he was Mycroft’s saving grace. 

In a way, Sally guessed, Greg was. 

‘What do you think they’ll do?’ asked Sally, her voice quiet. 

‘Gregory,’ was all Mycroft said in response. ‘Magnussen has him now. Magnussen knows who Gregory is. What Gregory means to me. What Gregory represents for the Resistance.’ 

It was true. Greg was the ultimate bargaining chip. What he meant to all the people she’d met here - they had turned him into an otherworldly figure. Someone to practically be revered. Greg was the symbol of the future for them. The symbol of everything the Resistance wanted to do. 

It was hard for her to see, a little. It was hard, because she knew Greg. She knew his fundamental flaws. 

Greg was self-sacrificing to the point of suicide. He had weak boundaries, he didn’t know when to push back. He never had.

Sally had felt bad, sometimes, being around him. She had always had boundaries, she always knew when enough was enough, exactly when to push back. Often to her own detriment. But Greg never had. Greg never had known when to push back, when to know enough was enough. He never was a rebel. 

But to these people, Greg was a hero. Greg was the Silver Knight, that symbolisation he’d always feared becoming. 

‘You think Magnussen’ll use him, somehow?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft. ‘And now I must wait. Magnussen will make a move.’ 

‘It’s a propaganda war,’ Sally realised, turning to look at Mycroft’s profile, outlined in blue. His hawk-like nose, prominent on his face, stood out the most, giving him the impression of a bird of prey. His brows were low over shadowed eyes, his high cheekbones casting shade onto his cheeks. 

‘It is,’ replied Mycroft. ‘I make a move, then Magnussen makes one in return. All I must hope for is that he does not make the power move. Not yet.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Magnussen could have Gregory killed,’ Mycroft replied, his voice emotionless, yet he was betrayed by the stiffening of his body, the rolling back of those shoulders. ‘Magnussen could easily have Gregory killed, and blame someone from the Districts. He could very easily do it on the Victory Tour. Which will be commencing tomorrow evening after the Victor’s Ball.’ 

‘Why blame someone from the Districts?’

‘A scapegoat,’ he replied. ‘An effective mechanism to turn the Capitol against the Districts, as Gregory is so beloved by them, and an effective way to rip the Resistance apart, as well as turn all the Districts against one another.’ 

‘A house divided.’ 

‘I’m afraid, however, that we are already divided.’ 

‘In what way?’ asked Sally, frowning. 

‘There are divisions that run deep within the hearts and minds of the Resistance. There are those who lack forgiveness, who lack mercy, those who are simply angry, and raging. And there are those who are willing to forgive, those who are willing to show mercy. Even to those who deserve none.’ 

‘That’s what you said the other day, isn’t it?’ Sally murmured. 

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft. ‘Once, long before Panem, there was a man who famously said; “A house divided, cannot stand.” This house is held together by chewing gum and string, I’m afraid. It may come undone with the smallest of tensions.’ 

‘So we have to get Greg out before he can get to the Districts where he could feasibly be killed,’ said Sally, nodding sharply. 

‘It is not as easy as that,’ Mycroft said, shaking his head. ‘I wish it were.’ 

‘Why isn’t it? Why can’t we just infiltrate the train, and get Greg out before he gets to the Districts?’ 

Mycroft bit his lip, frowning, and looking down at his feet. 

‘Why don’t you want to do it?’ asked Sally, her eyes narrowing. 

‘I cannot,’ said Mycroft. ‘I cannot be seen to orchestrate something like that. It is problematic for the politics of the Resistance. Gregory… Gregory is somewhat of an issue between myself and the leader of the Resistance. I am still consolidating my power, Sally.’ 

‘You’re the general,’ said Sally, ‘and Greg is important. He’s the Silver Knight.’ 

‘It is difficult,’ said Mycroft. ‘I know how I would do it. I know how to get into the train, I know how to get out. But what it would represent…’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Sally, feeling like a broken record.

‘It would add another nexus of power to an already delicate situation,’ said Mycroft. 

Sally tried to parse those words out. It was difficult, and it was easy to see that those words Mycroft just spoke didn’t really have a meaning. So Sally tried to think it through. 

Why wasn’t Mycroft telling her the whole truth? Who held the power in the Resistance? Why couldn’t Mycroft just go in and save Greg, like he so clearly wanted to do? 

There had to be a reason. 

First, Mycroft wasn’t telling her the whole truth. He wasn’t explaining it in a way she could understand. Why? 

Because there were eyes on them. There were eyes all throughout the base, watching everyone constantly, looking out for suspicious behaviour. Yes, there was privacy here. But it was minimal. 

So it was something that could be dangerous to Mycroft. Or to her. But who would dare challenge Mycroft? Who was more powerful than he was? Who was more powerful than the general, than the Great Tactician? 

The other leaders of the Resistance. 

Elizabeth Smallwood. Culverton Smith. Mike Stamford. They were all unknowns to her. She knew one of them, Culverton, was the leader of the Resistance in name. She knew that Elizabeth Smallwood was a former counsellor to President Snow. And she had heard that Mike Stamford was the Head Gamemaker. But which would challenge Mycroft? 

Culverton Smith. 

The name came to her instantly. 

She had heard it whispered amongst many of the more hardened Resistance recruits. The ones who were like her - who hated the Capitol, who didn’t want to show mercy. The ones who didn’t want to be kind. 

But Greg could tip the scales. It was a delicate balance, here, she suddenly realised. A delicate balance between what was right and what was easy. What appealed to everyone who’d ever been wronged. Something she herself had struggled with. 

Greg was kind, however. Greg was so kind, so merciful. He wanted to build a merciful world where people weren’t Reaped, where there wasn’t any risk of children dying. What he represented for so many of these people — that was power distilled. He was loved by so many, had earned the devotion of everyone, even Mycroft. That… that had to be powerful. 

Yet… there was something else. 

‘You’re afraid, aren’t you?’ asked Sally, her voice soft. 

Mycroft didn’t reply, just cast a look at her out of the corner of one slate grey eye. There was no emotion on that still, steady face. 

‘You’re afraid Greg’s going to be angry…. no…’ that was too simple, ‘… you’re afraid he’s going to be disappointed.’ 

Mycroft’s eyes looked down at his feet, again. ‘It is a remarkable thing,’ he murmured. ‘Something I have never experienced before, really.’ 

‘Don’t worry,’ murmured Sally. ‘There’s no universe in which Greg would ever be disappointed with you. Yeah, he’s gonna be really fuckin’ angry, but not disappointed. He could—‘ 

Suddenly, she was interrupted by the flashing of the symbol of the Capitol, before a scene lit up the screen of the Network. It was Greg, and Sally could hear the sucked in breath of not just herself, not just Mycroft, but the whole of the Silo around her. 

Greg didn’t look well. He was covered over by a veneer of some sort, his face smoothed out, the dark circles under his eyes touched up, somehow. But Sally knew that face, knew the lines and edges of it. She could see the dark circles under Greg’s eyes, the sunken skin of his cheeks, the worry lines, the paler strands of silver weaving into his already silver hair. 

And the panic. Sally had seen panic like that on Greg’s face only a couple times before. His eyes were rolling a little, and Sally knew instantly what Magnussen had done. 

_‘John,’ _she whispered. Mycroft looked at her, sharply. 

On the screen, Greg began to speak, his voice somehow robotic. _'‘People of Panem, we have heard horrible reports this morning of terrible violence in District Twelve. Terrible violence, perpetrated by a group calling themselves the Resistance, and using a false image of the fallen Capitol hero Mycroft Holmes as propaganda for their violence. _

_ ‘They are a terrorist group.’ _

Sally could see Greg’s hands shaking, by his sides, before the camera zoomed in on his face. 

_ ‘Mycroft Holmes is dead. Mycroft Holmes died in my arms, and this terrorist group is breaking my heart by falsely using his image. This terrorist group seeks to uproot our way of life. They seek to do damage as they please, they do not seek to help in any way. If anyone who has seen any member of this terrorist group, or has any information about them, please approach a Peacekeeper._

_ ‘Tonight, at the Victor’s Ball, I along with my fellow Victors will be joining the residents of the Capitol in a wonderful celebration of unity and strength of our nation of Panem. Panem, with the Districts as its’ body and the Capitol as its’ head will survive and thrive despite any obstacles. We will not be bowed into submission by the threat of terrorism._

_ ‘Panem is one.’ _

Sally looked over at Mycroft, as the screen faded back to the blue with the Capitol’s symbol floating in the centre, but Mycroft was gone.

***

The bright lights of the presidential house shone through the dark. Bright, colourful lights shine through the windows, lighting up the party. The gardens out the front were also well-manicured and lit up with rushlights. People wandered about the manicured lawns, all dressed in brightly colouredoutfits. They looked almost like flowers, decorating the lawns. 

‘Come along, Greg,’ said Calypso, raising her hands and clasping them together. She was wearing a bright gold outfit, with silver jewellery, and her hair had also been dyed bright gold. She was wearing hairpins, all with the little symbol of the Silver Knight. ‘All these people are here to meet _you, _darling. This… this is the party of the year.’ 

Calypso turned to him, her hands spread, her lips painted bright gold, and her smile wide. ‘Everyone who’s anyone will be here. All to celebrate you, darling. My Victor.’ 

Greg forced a small, tight smile to spread over his face. It was hard, but he forced it to happen. Behind him, both Dimmock and Clara were walking, dressed up a little more subdued than Calypso. Beside him, John was clinging to his hand, his hair oiled down into a shell over his head. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Greg could see all his armour glistening, reflecting the bright lights pouring out of the manse. The massive, open windows were full of people, all looking out to where they were approached. Calypso led the way, her wide smile glistening in the light. Greg stood just to her left, letting John catch a hold on his left hand. 

As they approached, Greg could see that there were people lining the avenue out the front of the manse, all dressed up in bright colours just like Calypso. They seemed to all look like wavering flowers, with massive, wide collars opening up around their faces, all dolled up with painted lips and eyes and cheeks.

‘Breathe it in,’ murmured Calypso, ‘This is all for you.’ 

‘Cosy,’ Greg grunted out, entirely unable to conjure the kind of excitement that Calypso was letting off in waves. It was almost palpable. 

‘Attitude,’ chided Calypso, seemingly having regained all the energy she had lost during the earlier parts of the day. It was astonishing how quickly she bounced back, how quickly she suppressed all the hurt and pain. 

For Greg it certainly wasn’t as easy. It still felt like he could feel the slimy fingers of Magnussen’s touch creeping over his skin, up his back and over his arms. It was an entirely unwelcome sensation, it made him want to crawl under the nearest table and hide away. 

Of course, that wasn’t an option. 

They began their walk through the masses of people. John clung tighter to his side, and behind him Dimmock and Clara were entirely cut off, forced to walk around the people who were clustering around him. 

Their faces all drew closer and closer, peering at him out of painted eyes, fluttering dark eyelashes at him, batting them heavy-handedly. All crowded together like this, their faces almost seemed like masks, like something out of a painting. Closer and closer they pressed, as John whimpered and pressed in closer to his side. Calypso was lapping it all up, conducting the crowd like a circus ringleader. 

Then began the touching. People would reach out with long hands, with short fingers, with long fingernails like claws, painted all colours of the rainbow. They would lay their cold hands on him, stroking over his armour, one man even braved pulling at the greying strands of his hair. 

Greg shuddered, trying subtly to push the hands off, but they grasped for him, as if they could somehow touch the skin underneath all the clothing he wore. 

It was uncomfortable - as if they were trying to strip him.

It was all too likely that they were. 

Greg drew in closer behind Calypso, as she led them through the waves of people up into the house, commenting on the furniture, which to Greg’s eyes looked distinctly uncomfortable, even the colours of the curtains she made comment on. Greeting people with two sloppy kisses on each of their cheeks, she fluttered and fussed around, it was all Greg could do to keep up. 

She floated around as if she was on a cloud, soaking in all the attention that was being lavished on her. 

Eventually, Greg couldn’t keep up, and fell back, trying to slip away unnoticed. It was difficult, his armour was shiny, and people were looking for him, trying to reach out to touch him, to lay their fingers on his skin, on his cheeks. 

‘Greg,’ murmured John, barely audible over the loud gushing of the crowd. 

‘What is it, Johnny?’ asked Greg, leaning down, putting his ear right by John’s mouth. John was shaking, his face pale. 

‘Why are all these people trying to touch you?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Creepy, isn’t it?’ 

‘Yeah,’ John said, nodding and turning up the corner of his mouth in a nervous smile. ‘All the people here are colourful and creepy. It’s hurting my eyes.’ 

‘You and me both,’ said Greg, shaking his head. 

The fabric here would sell for a fortune back in the District. It was of such high quality, such a rich colour to the fabric that Greg could see it fetching a thousand portions, easily. Jewels bedecked every neck, studded into bracelets, woven into hair - simply everywhere. 

In this moment, the sheer wealth of the Capitol struck him. There was food everywhere, there was richness everywhere — anything here could feed a family back in the District for years. 

‘Hello, darling, you simply must try this,’ said a man, suddenly, reaching out a hand and resting it on Greg’s shoulder. His other hand held out a platter stacked high with some sort of treat Greg had never seen before. They looked a little like cookies, but they were brightly coloured, and iced with the most outrageously hot blue icing. 

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Greg, holding up a hand in refusal. His stomach was still roiling from earlier in the day, he didn’t really trust himself to keep anything down.

It had been hard to eat, over the last few days. He never felt hungry, he felt always constantly tired, like there just wasn’t enough time left for him to sleep. There was always food near him, he just didn’t want to eat it. 

He knew he was losing weight, and fast, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. Everything here just made it so hard to care. 

‘Oh, have you already eaten your full?’ asked the man, his bright blue hair bouncing as he nodded, as if in commiseration. Greg decided that was probably the safest explanation, so he too nodded. ‘No problem!’ he exclaimed, holding out a tiny vial of pale green liquid that he had seemingly pulled from thin air. ‘Drink this!’ 

‘Why?’ asked Greg, taking the small vial and holding it up to the light, as if he could figure out its chemical composition just from looking. 

‘It makes you sick!’ said the man, with such delight, fluttering his hands. ‘So you can go on eating! How else would you be able to try everything?’ 

Greg suddenly felt an all new roll of nausea wave through his body, making his knees shake. Beside him, John looked up at the vial with horror. 

‘I… no thank you,’ said Greg, shaking his head and pushing the vial back towards the man, before grabbing John’s hand tightly with his own, and tugging him off towards the other end of the room, where he could see Clara’s small form next to Dimmock. 

‘Greg!’ said Clara, surprised when Greg grabbed her by the shoulder, tucking himself in between her and Dimmock, and tugging John forwards to stand in the small circle between them. John was hunched over, pressing his face tightly to Greg’s side. 

‘Clara,’ murmured Greg, ‘Have you seen those little green vials? The ones that make you sick?’ 

‘What about them?’ asked Clara, frowning, her brows folding over her small eyes. 

Greg knew his face was twitching, and he tried to control his anger, twisting his fist by his side. ‘It’s… it’s not fair…’ he murmured, ‘There are people in the Districts who are starving. Children. Little children, starving to death. And the people here… they make themselves sick just so they can go on eating!’ 

‘Oh, Greg,’ whispered Clara, reaching out a hand and laying it on his shoulder. ‘Greg, of course it isn’t fair.’ 

Greg shook his head, fighting to hold back tears. ‘I’m so tired of this.’ 

‘I know,’ whispered Clara, leaning in to rest her forehead on his chest. ‘Just a little longer, I promise. After the Presidential speech we can go. The train is already waiting for us in the station. Both Calypso and I made sure of it.’ 

Greg bowed his head, looking down at John who had his face pressed into Greg’s hip, his small eyes peeking out from behind Greg’s thigh to look around at all the people. 

‘Greg,’ whispered John, ‘There’s someone who’s been looking at us.’ 

Suddenly, a jolt of adrenaline shot through Greg, and he turned to see that John was right. There was a man over the far corner, a round man with small spectacles and a receding hairline, dressed perhaps a little less outrageously. He was almost dressed tastefully, in a dark suit, with only a hint of metallic gold peeking out around his collar. 

Suddenly, Calypso was beside him, touching him on the arm, and tugging him over in Greg’s direction. 

‘Clara,’ hissed Greg, ‘Someone’s headed this way. With Calypso.’ 

‘The Head Gamemaker,’ murmured Clara, her voice wavering slightly. ‘Mike Stamford.’ 

Greg sucked in a sudden breath of recognition. ‘I remember him,’ he murmured. ‘He was at the scoring. I remember him. He was the only one who was watching me. The only one who took me seriously.’ 

‘He is a fair man,’ replied Clara. ‘A decent man.’ 

‘The Head Gamemaker?’ questioned Greg, snorting. Clara inclined her head, just as the man drew closer. Calypso held out a hand to him in greeting, smiling. 

‘Mr Stamford,’ said Calypso, ‘Please meet my Victor, Gregory Lestrade.’ 

‘Ah, the Silver Knight,’ said Stamford, with a small smile creasing his features. ‘I have heard a great deal about you.’ 

Greg inclined his head, again, with a small, tight smile. 

‘May I offer a dance?’ asked the Head Gamemaker, with a small nod of his head. Greg bowed his own. 

‘Of course,’ he bit out, knowing he couldn’t do anything but accept. Calypso clapped her hands together, utterly delighted, as Stamford took ahold of Greg’s hand, and led him out onto the dance floor, before manoeuvring Greg into position. 

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, finally,’ said Mike, smiling almost kindly. 


	12. Victors

Stamford turned Greg, making Greg feel a little like a doll, even while he smiled kindly up at Greg. ‘How have you been?’ 

‘Fine, thanks,’ replied Greg, tersely, looking over Stamford’s shoulder to where John was standing, next to Clara and Dimmock, looking at Greg nervously. 

There was a moment of silence between Stamford and himself. Stamford’s fingers were clammy in Greg’s own, and for a moment Greg felt extraordinarily awkward. Stamford seemed nervous, about what Greg didn’t know. Past him, other people danced and spun, their brightly coloured dresses and hair and capes of various jewel tones swished. 

‘How are you finding the party?’ asked Stamford, his voice soft, yet somehow coherent over the loud laughs and the booming music washing through the hall of the manse. 

‘It’s… fine,’ said Greg, scrambling for a moment to find the right words to describe it. It was difficult to find things to say. 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Stamford. Greg looked back at the man to find that his round, jovial face was turned up in a small smile of understanding. Behind silver-gold spectacles, his eyes flashed at Greg. ‘Well, to really enjoy these things, you have to abandon your moral compass. That might be a bit difficult for you, though, as I understand it.’ 

Stamford turned Greg, again, in a series of short steps, until they were weaving amongst a group of four couples, winding in a circle. ‘It’s appalling,’ said Stamford, his voice lowering even further in volume. 

Greg looked at the man directly, suspiciously. The sentiments the man was expressing were dangerous. They were worrying; his comments nerve-wracking. Stamford shook his head, looking away. 

‘You impressed me a great deal,’ said Stamford, ‘That first time during the scoring. Your strength, courage — you knew what you wanted.’ 

‘Was that why you scored me so highly?’ 

‘Yes,’ nodded Stamford. ‘The other Gamemakers and I all agreed. However… the scoring isn’t always about skill. In fact, that is only one facet of the decision. It is a complex thing, being a Gamemaker.’ 

‘I’d think so,’ said Greg, shaking his head.

Stamford let out a low, humourless chuckle. ‘The people in the position of Head Gamemaker… well… let’s just say that it has never been the most stable of jobs.’ 

Greg was entirely silent. There were so many questions, burning on the tip of his tongue. Questions he didn’t know if he could ask, questions he didn’t know if he’d get the answer to. Questions he knew would get him in trouble. The questions burnt there, at the forefront of his mind. 

‘If it’s not the most stable of jobs, why did you take it?’ 

‘Same reason as you,’ replied Stamford, shrugging. ‘I volunteered.’ 

Greg fell silent. Suddenly, all the questions faded from his mind, replaced with an anger, a frustration. It hadn’t really been a conscious decision he’d made to volunteer.

Thinking back on it, he knew he’d done the right thing. But he also knew he should’ve thought it through more. Understood the consequences of everything he’d done more clearly. Stamford had a point. By volunteering, he’d done something to make himself a target, a symbol. The act of volunteering to save someone else — it’d only be done a couple times before. And it had only ever really been done by older siblings trying to save their younger siblings. Not for just… friends. 

Then, for him to go on and win? 

It was defiance. Defiance, and a finger, pointed in the face of the system, telling it that what it was doing was wrong. A snub in the nose, so to speak. 

Greg bit his lip. 

His love of Mycroft, of course, another snub. 

‘You said it wasn’t…’ Greg cut himself off, suddenly. He couldn’t ask. He didn’t know which side this man was on. Whether he was working directly with the Capitol, whether he was whispering into Magnussen’s ear — whether Magnussen was whispering into his…

Either way, it didn’t matter. It was too much of a risk. 

‘What did you want to ask?’ asked Stamford, raising a brow. Greg shook his head. 

‘Thank you for the dance, Head Gamemaker,’ said Greg, as formally as he could manage. 

‘It’s not over yet,’ said Stamford, shaking his head. ‘Besides, I’m afraid I rather wanted to continue to talk.’ 

‘I can’t,’ said Greg. ‘I have to get back to my son.’ 

Stamford said nothing, simply looked towards his own watch, as he brought Greg’s hand in closer. Silently, with a single movement of his finger, he slid across the winder on the watch, sliding it over to reveal another face underneath the plain, silver one. 

Underneath that was a symbol, etched into the new face of the watch. It was silver, bright silver, flashing slightly in the blue and white light flooding the dance floor. The symbol of the Silver Knight; the silver sword piercing the circle. 

‘I have a gift for you,’ said Stamford, quietly, reaching into his pocket with his hand, sliding the winder back across to disguise the face with the silver sword. ‘From the General.’ 

He brought out his hand, curled into a loose fist, before pressing his hand back into Greg’s own, and taking up the pose he had formerly, leading Greg around the dance floor. Greg could feel, in his hand, a small chain and pendant had spilled into his palm. But Stamford was holding it too tightly, holding his hand too firmly, for Greg to take it out and see what it was Stamford had handed him. 

Stamford shook his head, slightly, when Greg looked back up at him. His lips barely moving, Stamford spoke again. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Silver Knight. I do hope we’ll meet again sometime soon.’ 

With that, Stamford let his hands go, letting Greg curl his fingers into loose fists, trapping the chain and pendant in his hand. Then, Stamford raised a single finger, tapped the side of his nose, and turned, vanishing into the crowd. 

‘My goodness, what a lovely man,’ said Calypso, suddenly, from beside Greg. ‘Exceedingly pleasant. Far more pleasant that the last fellow, I can tell you that much.’ 

‘What happened to him?’ 

‘He was fired,’ replied Calypso. ‘Halfway through your Games, actually. That’s when Mike Stamford took over.’ 

‘Really?’ asked Greg, looking at Calypso, his brows raised. 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Calypso, already disinterested and looking over the crowd to where two other women were standing, fiddling with their glasses. ‘No one has heard from the last fellow for a while, come to think of it. Anyway, no more talk of the _admin_ of the Games, how boring! Come along, Greg, darling, I think I see some past Victors you simply must meet.’ 

‘Calypso, I have to go to the loo first, where is it?’ 

Calypso turned her nose up at him, but did point towards an unassuming archway with small curtains blocking the entrance from view. ‘Through there, darling. Do hurry back.’ 

Greg nodded, and made for the archway, pushing past a woman in a brightly coloured, skin-tight suit, and a man with a mohawk of blue hair and piercings covering his face. The curtain was a dark grey in colour, and slightly musty smelling when he pushed past it. 

Inside, there was a dim hallway, lit up with pale blue light. At one end were three women, all with their brightly coloured wigs of hair pressed together, gossiping and giggling frantically. Greg turned to the other end to see that it was empty aside from yet another curtained archway, done in dark blue. 

With quick, quiet steps, Greg made for that curtain, pushing through it to reveal a bathroom done all in black stone, with a long, low basin on one end of the room, and at the other end a set of tall doors. Immediately, Greg pushed open a door, seeing that inside there was a simple toilet in white marble, with gold accents and small golden swirls all around the edges. 

In his hand it felt a little like the pendant on its chain was burning hot, and as soon as Greg could close the door behind himself, he did. He opened his hand, then, to see a small chain of silver, at the end of which was dangling a circular pendant, also with a sword piercing straight through it. But this one was different from the one Clara always did, somehow. Somehow, it was a little larger, the edging a little wider. The sword was thinner, as well, somehow more reminiscent of Mycroft’s bla…

Mycroft. 

Suddenly, the chain took on a whole other meaning. 

Greg brought it up to his face, inspecting it closely, carefully. He couldn’t rule out this being a trick, all a big magic trick from the President, sending in his Head Gamemaker to psych Greg out, to unbalance him. 

It looked a little worn, a little rough around the edges as if this had been made by human hands, not machine tooled the way all the other little ones that Clara had done, which were perfect and pristine in a way that could only really be achieved by a machine. Greg took ahold of the pendant with his other hand, running his fingers over the front. 

Then, as he slid his hand around the back, he could feel something rough against his fingers. 

Immediately, Greg flipped it over to see that in the back was a beautiful rendering of an eye, filled out with gold inlay. Beneath it were the tiny letters; _MH,_ done in beautiful, arching script. 

Greg felt a lump form in his throat, his breaths freezing in his chest. 

Mycroft had made this. Mycroft had tooled this tiny pendant with his own hands, bending the metal and melting it in exactly the right shape. Greg knew a smile was twisting over his face, a pained smile, but a smile that was there. 

He could feel tears of relief pooling in the corners of his eyes, as for a moment, Mycroft felt real. Mycroft felt so, so real. 

Saying all that stuff, in front of those cameras, about how Mycroft was dead — it had killed him. It had dug a hole straight through the centre of Greg’s chest that felt like a lead weight, just sitting there waiting to crush his ribs. Everything he had been feeling about Mycroft’s resurrection had been confusing and terrifying, all these big things wrapped up inside him that he couldn’t help but panic a little. 

Then having to come here, having to “reassure” people that Mycroft was in fact dead, that the Resistance Mycroft had spoken of in the Arena was some sort of terror organisation using his face — it had hurt even more. When he saw Mycroft was alive — the entire world had changed around him. The whole world had fundamentally shifted under his feet, and it had been so hard for Greg to go back, and to be in the mindset to tell those… those lies about Mycroft, about Mycroft being dead. 

Mycroft had changed his life not for the first time, and Magnussen was trying to force him to change it back. For a little while there, Greg could barely convince himself that Mycroft was alive. Magnussen had said Mycroft was dead, had forced him to tell everyone that Mycroft was dead, and it had almost convinced him. It had almost convinced Greg that maybe… maybe Mycroft was dead. Maybe it had been a terrorist attack of some sort, using his face. But suddenly, Mycroft felt so real to him. It had felt like all the words to express that, all the ways in which he could express that Mycroft was alive had been taken from him. 

But here it was. Physical, real evidence carved by Mycroft’s own, long fingers. Real evidence that Mycroft was alive, and there, out there, waiting for Greg. 

The pendant dangled from Greg’s fingers, reflecting the light, the inscription on the inside shimmering. It was real. It was there. 

‘Greg?!’ 

Clara voice echoed through the bathroom. A jolt shot through Greg, and he pushed his way out of the stall, knowing that there were tears streaking down his cheeks, making the makeup that Clara had wiped over his face earlier in the day run. She was standing there in the middle of the bathroom, her face worried, her hands clutching a small purse. 

‘Greg!’ she cried, rushing towards him, reaching out her hands for his face. ‘Greg, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?’ 

Greg shook his head, barely able to speak for the lump in his throat. Clara smiled, as kindly as she could, and leaned in to press her forehead to Greg’s chest. 

‘Take your time,’ she murmured. ‘I know the party’s a bit much.’ 

Bowing his head, Greg took a deep swallow, and tried to speak. ‘Mycroft,’ Greg said, croakily. Clara leaned back, looking up at him through worried, dark eyes. ‘Mycroft’s alive.’ 

Clara bowed her head. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He is. He has to be.’ 

Greg lifted his hand, then, dangling the pendant in front of her face. She smiled, taking ahold of it, flipping it over to see the initials, before dropping it again. Greg appreciated that. He appreciated her tact; he hadn’t realised how private that necklace now felt to him. He appreciated that she had somehow realised it before him, only taken a cursory glance before letting him fold it back into his hand like the precious jewel it was. 

‘He sent you something,’ she murmured. ‘A token.’ 

Greg nodded, smiling through the tears. ‘I thought,’ he croaked, ‘I thought for a moment that it was a lie. A big lie cooked up by the Capitol, something Magnussen made up just to torture me… but it’s not. It’s not.’ 

Clara grinned, reaching up a hand to wipe the tears from Greg’s face. ‘It’s not a trick,’ she murmured. ‘And we’ll get out, I promise. We’ll get out, and we’ll get you back to him.’ 

Greg nodded his head, clenching his jaw. ‘We can’t stay in here for too long. People’ll notice I’m gone.’ 

‘Yes,’ nodded Clara. ‘We need to go.’ 

With a gesture from her hand, Clara led him from the bathroom. 

***

Practically as soon as they left the bathroom, they were greeted by Calypso, who took ahold of Greg’s arm, and dragged him away from Clara. Greg gripped the pendant tightly in his hand, running his finger over the inscription on the back over and over again. 

John had come with her, reaching out for Greg as soon as he could, taking a hold of Greg’s empty hand, and squeezing. He seemed calmer, somehow. It may have something to do with the chocolate smeared on the corners of his lips. Greg grinned down at him, the smile spreading more easily across his face as the heavy, cool weight of the metal pendant sat in his hand, and thoughts of Mycroft flittered across his mind. 

‘Come, Greg, darling, you simply must meet the other Victors,’ gushed Calypso, leading him over to where a group of people dressed all in slightly subdued outfits stood, silently, in a group, all looking out over the party. In the lead was an older woman, her hair coiffed around her head, pure white. Beside her stood a pair of younger men, one tall, beefy and dark-skinned, the other fairer, with blond hair and blue eyes. 

As they approached, the older woman looked up from her glass of dark orange liquid, and smiled at Greg, the corners of her eyes creasing. ‘This is Martha Hudson,’ said Calypso, gesturing, ‘She’s the Victor of the 18th Hunger Games.’ 

Greg reached out a hand. He’d heard of Martha Hudson before. He had never seen how she’d won her Games, but he’d heard rumours. She was one of the first Careers to ever win a Games; she was from District One. 

The same District as Mycroft — said a little voice in the back of Greg’s mind. He wondered, briefly, if she’d ever met him. 

Inclining his head, Greg took her hand, and gently shook her hand. Her skin felt paper-thin under his fingers, her ageing giving off the impression of an almost weak, frail woman. Yet there was a certain strength there, in the way she held her shoulders and the way she squeezed his hands, the way her eyes trailed across his face and body in an oh-so-familiar way. 

She wore a brightly coloured, purple dress, cut with a high neckline and with embroidery along the skirt and the edges of the sleeves. Her entire demeanour was kind, and Greg was taken in by the whole image. Greg smiled down at her. 

‘It’s a pleasure,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Gregory Lestrade.’ 

Greg almost took a step back, when she used his full name. Her voice was soft and papery, yet somehow smooth and strong. She had a certain youthfulness to her eyes, a certain liveliness to her features that Greg almost envied. ‘And I’ve heard of you, Mrs Hudson. It’s nice to meet you.’ 

She reached out, and folded her arm through his own, on the other arm across from John, who was still clinging to him. His small, blue eyes were looking up at Martha Hudson, carefully. Gently, one of her papery fingers reached out and tapped on where he still had his hand grasped tightly around Greg’s pendant. ‘Come along, Silver Knight. Let’s have a bit of a chat.’ 

Greg nodded, allowing her to lead him through the room, past the table full of food towards where the gardens were. She led him out onto small stone path. Beside him, John followed, tugging at his hand. gently. 

‘I was Mycroft Holmes mentor,’ said Mrs Hudson, her eyes crinkling around the corners as she looked up at him with a smile. ‘I’ve known that boy since he was young.’ 

‘Mycroft Holmes is dead,’ said Greg, shaking his head, but finding a new strength to be able to say that with the feeling of Mycroft’s pendant in his hand, as if Mycroft was there himself, holding his hand. 

‘Of course,’ said Martha Hudson, with a smile. ‘But do you know what his plan was? Before he went into the Arena, before he even arrived at the Games?’ 

‘I know he didn’t mean to die,’ said Greg. ‘He told me himself. He hadn’t planned for me.’ 

‘You’re right,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘He didn’t plan for you. That boy planned and plotted and schemed his little heart out, working out the best tactics. Of course, he didn’t listen when I warned him it would all go out the window. I was right, of course.’ 

Greg found himself laughing at that, the laugh practically being forced out of him. 

‘Everything he had planned went out the window the moment he saw you, my dear,’ said Mrs Hudson, her voice warm, her hands soft on Greg’s inner elbow. She squeezed, gently. ‘He had to make a new plan.’ 

‘One where he died.’ 

‘Of course,’ Mrs Hudson murmured, squeezing inside his elbow. ‘But his original plan was to hunt everyone down. Without pity. In his first plan, he would end the Games in less than a week.’ 

‘He could’ve done it, you know.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Hudson, ‘He could have. But instead he dragged it out for as long as he feasibly could. Just for more time with you. You changed him. When he first came to me, asked me to mentor him for the Games… he was brutal. Efficient in everything he did. Quite frankly I thought him a monster, were it not for his brother Sherlock.’ 

‘Sherlock,’ murmured Greg, a sudden wave of guilt washing through him. He hadn’t thought of Mycroft’s brother since the end of the Games. He hadn’t thought about where Sherlock was, if Greg could do anything to help him. 

‘Sherlock is safe,’ murmured Mrs Hudson. ‘I can assure you of that.’ 

‘Have you seen Sherlock?’ 

‘Of course,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘There are complicated things here, Greg. This isn’t a game.’ 

‘I know it’s not,’ Greg snapped, suddenly, then realising a moment later what a tit he was being. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, his eyes downcast. ‘Not even the Games felt like a game. This certainly doesn’t.’ 

‘That’s the point,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘That was what Mycroft saw it as, before you. He saw it as a big game of chess. I knew the truth, of course. This isn’t a game. Not anymore. There are many battles within this war. The battle between the Capitol and the Districts. The battle between the Districts themselves. Fundamental ideologies and beliefs about the way our world should be are conflicting. And you are right in the middle.’ 

‘I know I’m in danger,’ said Greg. ‘You don’t need to tell me that.’ 

‘You need to work out, Greg, if you’ll be safer here in the Capitol, or with the Resistance.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Greg.

‘There are factions within the Capitol. There are factions within the Resistance. You need to work out if the factions in the Resistance will tear you apart, or if you can bring them together.’ 

‘I’m not a hero,’ said Greg. ‘I’m not a symbol. I’m not a unifier. I’m not Mycroft.’ 

‘No, you’re not, and thank whatever power’s out there for it,’ snorted Mrs Hudson. 

‘Hey,’ chided Greg, nudging her in the side. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him. Don’t knock him til you’ve tried it… no, that’s the wrong thing to say.’ 

‘That’s the spirit,’ smiled Mrs Hudson. At his side, John let out a high peal of laughter, nudging Greg in the side with his body. 

‘Gross, Greg,’ said John, his smile infectious. A moment later, Greg finally found himself smiling, a grin spreading over his face. Beside him, the other Victor was grinning away, her smile turning her face somehow more youthful, despite it etching deep lines into her cheeks and beside her eyes. 

‘You’re John, aren’t you?’ asked Mrs Hudson, turning and bending down with a creak of her knees to kneel in the grass next to John. John smiled, and nodded, tucking in a hand next to his face, shyly. 

Making a decision, Greg also sat down on the grass. They were some distance from the main party, now, only a couple of brightly dressed stragglers meandering about the grass nearby. John sat down as well, tucking tightly into Greg’s side and looking at Mrs Hudson out of bright, navy blue eyes. 

‘So, where are you from, John?’ asked Mrs Hudson, her voice soft. 

‘District Ten,’ replied John, his face opening. ‘We lived in a little house on top of a hill with cows and horses and chickens. We lived next to Sally, as well, she had sheep.’ 

‘That sounds lovely,’ smiled Mrs Hudson. 

‘Where are you from?’ asked John, his voice soft. Interested, Greg leaned forwards. 

‘I’m from District One, the same as Greg’s friend Mycroft,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘I lived in a small house as well, near a river.’ 

‘That sounds amazing,’ said John. Mrs Hudson smiled. 

‘It was,’ she said. ‘The place was lovely and full of sunlight. The river was a little old, and there was a bit of rubbish in it, but where I was it was a little cleaner than the rest of the District. My husband used to fish in the river, bring them home for dinner.’ 

‘I’ve only had fish a few times before, and I can’t remember what it was like,’ sighed John. 

‘I’ve only had it a couple times myself,’ said Greg, leaning forwards. ‘What kinds of fish did you use to eat?’ 

‘Oh, all kinds,’ said Mrs Hudson, her eyes lighting up. ‘We used to eat snapper and salmon and cod. Unfortunately they’re all gone now.’ 

‘What happened to them?’ asked John, his eyes downcast. 

‘Well,’ began Mrs Hudson, ‘When you fish out too many fish, then there aren’t any left to breed, so there isn’t any left to eat.’ 

‘That’s sad,’ murmured John. 

‘It is,’ sighed Mrs Hudson, ‘But you know, I think one day, all the fish will come back to the river.’ 

‘Can we go visit when that happens?’ asked John, turning to look at Greg with excited eyes. Greg grinned back, happy to finally see John talking again. 

For the last few days, ever since they arrived in the Capitol, John hadn’t been speaking. He hadn’t been saying anything, he’d just been quiet, silently watching everyone and everything out of wide, navy blue eyes, his face entirely stoic. Except the nights, of course, when he would creep into Greg’s bed and cry into his chest. 

But now, he was smiling and grinning away, chocolate smeared around his lips, his dark blue eyes creasing around the corners as he spoke, rapidly. Mrs Hudson was almost magical. 

‘So, John—‘ 

Mrs Hudson was cut off by the sudden sound of trumpets, echoing over the grass. The bright, flashing lights from the dancing people inside the manse stopped, and at the top of the house, where a small balcony overlooked the front avenue of the house and the open party below, a white spotlight lit up. 

‘Greg!’ Calypso’s voice echoed over the grass, louder than the official sounding music. Greg got to his feet, tugging John with him. ‘Greg! The President awaits, darling!’ 

‘Sorry,’ Greg whispered to Mrs Hudson, who waved off his apology with a single, thin hand. Greg offered her a quick hand up, before looking back over the grass to where Calypso was rushing out towards him, her gold skirts billowing. 

As she reached them, the immediately clasped a hand around Greg’s armoured forearm, leading him up towards the avenue where the people were gathering, below the balcony where presumably the President was going to speak. Dimmock and Clara both met them there, Clara smiling gently. 

The crowd was roiling, people clapping and grasping champagne flutes from nearby passing waiters. Greg had one pressed into his hand by Calypso, before being pushed forwards to stand between Clara and Dimmock. Clara leaned over, tapping Greg on the shoulder. His armour let out a soft dinging noise as her ring collided with the silver metal. 

‘You reckon you convinced him?’ asked Clara, softly.

‘What, that Mycroft’s actually dead?’ Greg whispered back. Clara inclined her head with a soft, sad look. ‘I don’t know,’ Greg replied. ‘I don’t know what else I could’ve done, though.’ 

‘I guess we’re about to find out,’ said Clara, her voice wavering slightly. 

Greg gripped the pendant in his left hand so tightly the metal began to dig almost painfully into the fleshy part of his palm. In his other hand, John’s fingers were turning clammy, and Greg could feel him shaking at his side. 

Above them, the doors to the balcony opened, and Magnussen stepped out. He was wearing a dark coloured suit and tie, and in one, white-gloved hand, held a small champagne flute. The other hand he raised for silence, and the trumpet fanfare died out, leaving only quiet in its wake.

Cameras were already beginning to buzz around Magnussen’s head, floating over the crowd and likely broadcasting the whole event for everyone in the country to see. 

‘This evening,’ began Magnussen, his voice oily, ‘we are gathered here to celebrate our Victor of the 74th Hunger Games. A young man who represents everything we hold dear as a nation.’ 

The word were biting, insulting. But Greg drew strength from the now-warm piece of metal in his hand. 

‘Gregory Lestrade, who represents our values; our strength, our unity, our valour.’ A small round of applause rippled through the crowd. Hands reached out to Greg, not for the first time, reaching out to lay hands on his shoulders, his neck, his face, any of his bare skin they could reach. John tucked more tightly in by his side, trying to stay as far away as he could from the questing fingers. 

Greg reached down, knowing he could do nothing about the other hands, but wrapping his arm around John’s shoulders, tucking him in more tightly against Greg’s legs. 

‘I personally want to congratulate him,’ Magnussen said, his voice proud and slimy, his thin chest puffed out. ‘on all his astonishing feats. His strength, bravery and love for everyone around him has inspired us. He will be a symbol for everything the Capitol was, is, and shall be in the future.’ 

Clenching his jaw, Greg bit into his lip harshly, trying not to react to the words. He knew he had flinched when Magnussen had said them, but he couldn’t do anything to help it. What he had said had hurt. 

He was a symbol, it was true. There wasn’t really any way for him to escape it, or deny it. But if he had to be a symbol, he at least wanted to be a symbol of something he believed in. People he believed in. 

Just as Mrs Hudson had said. He needed to decide what kind of symbol he wanted to be. 

And everything in him was telling him he wanted to be a symbol for the Resistance. He wanted to stand by Mycroft’s side, he wanted to represent the future Mycroft was fighting every day, so hard to build. 

What Mycroft was doing in District Twelve, and what he was going to do for all the other Districts. 

Soon, Greg promised himself. He would make it happen. Soon. 

‘Of course, his strength in the face of the new threat rising is inspiring. His bravery in the face of the man he loved will go on inspiring us every day, for as long as he may live.’ 

A cheer rose up from the crowd, but all gReg could feel was sudden bile rising in the back of his throat. 

He knew the truth, suddenly. 

Magnussen would never be convinced, no matter how much Greg lied. Magnussen would never be convinced Greg thought Mycroft was dead, and that Greg was prepared to tell everyone that Mycroft was dead. He knew the truth. 

Greg bit back a sudden scream that was rising in his throat. 

They needed to get out. 

The cheers were rising in the crowd, and Greg locked eyes with Magnussen, high above him, as Magnussen raised his glass to the cheering people below. To him, more specifically. 

There was a sudden crack. 

Thinking the worst, immediately, Greg turned, only to see the bright lights of fireworks lighting up the sky. The launch let off another great crack, and a bright spark of blue light lit up the sky, launching high up until it burst in an explosion of blue and red sparkles. 

Turning back, Greg saw that Magnussen was gazing at him, lifting his glass to his lips, his eyes never leaving Greg’s face. 

‘We have to go,’ Greg hissed, leaning over to Clara to whisper in her eat. 

Clara nodded, sharply, before taking Greg by the hand, and setting her glass down on a nearby bench. Greg held John’s hand, tightly, in his own, before setting off behind her, as she pushed through the crowds. 

‘My goodness,’ gasped Calypso, following behind them, along with Dimmock, who had taken with him an entire bottle of some sort of golden liquid. Greg tossed a disapproving glare over his shoulder, but followed after Clara, who was hurrying down the steps towards the gates of the manse. 

She was stopped short at the line of Peacekeepers, all wearing the little swirl of the President on their shoulders. 

‘Halt!’ commanded the Peacekeeper, holding out his gloved hand. Greg frowned, but Calypso pushed past him, her face curled in rage. 

‘What is the meaning of this?!’ she snapped out, clapping her hands together. ‘What right do you have to stop the Victor and his party from leaving?’ 

‘By orders of President Magnussen,’ said the Peacekeeper. 

‘How dare you?’ breathed out Calypso, before reaching forwards and slapping away the man’s hand. ‘The Victory tour is to begin tomorrow, in District Twelve. We must leave now if we’re to make it in time. _That, _I think you’ll find, is higher on his list of priorities!’ 

The Peacekeeper seemed to fumble for a moment with his decision, before he seemed to cast his eyes up at Greg from behind his faceless, emotionless mask. Another moment, then the Peacekeeper stood aside. The gate behind him opened up with a slow, slick sound of metal on metal, and in the driveway outside waited a long, dark car. 

Calypso smiled a small satisfied smile, before leading them down, and fluttering them into the car. Greg’s metal armour clanked, as he took a seat in the back, before helping John up. 

Dimmock followed, swaying on his feet, before he was helped up by Calypso, and Clara followed behind, lastly. Immediately, she shut the door behind them, as Calypso tapped imperiously on the divider between the driver and the passengers. 

Slowly, softly, the car pulled off into the night. 

***

The speech felt like it had sapped all the energy from Greg. It felt like Magnussen had reached int here again with his slimy fingers and taken what was Greg’s all out of him. It was hard to be strong, even with the pendant clutched in his grip, even while he took it in his hands and ran his fingers over the front and back time and time again. 

Clara was looking at him sadly out of the corner of her eye as he dragged his feet getting onto the train, distracting himself with helping John out of his little outfit and into more comfortable clothes. 

Once they were on the train itself, sitting ion the station, dark and quiet, Greg immediately went to the cabin he’d been assigned, not letting anyone, even John follow him. 

The cabin was small and dark, the bed on the far side done up with dark sheets and dark pillows. The window looked out onto nothing but the bare concrete wall of the round tunnel, waiting in silence for something to happen. 

With a single movement, Greg stripped the armour from his shoulders, unbuckling the arms and gauntlets, and tossing them onto the bed, before lifting the chest plate off. All that was left underneath was the suit, and the makeup caked onto his face. 

He could be bothered pulling any of the rest of it off; instead he just flopped down onto the bed, looking up at the plain, metal ceiling above, decorated with a single, hanging light that he’d left off when entering the room. 

Quietly, Greg lifted his hadn’t he one the pendant had been pressed so tightly into. 

Magnussen’s words were etching their way into his mind without his consent. It hurt, having those words burning in his head, making him weak. 

He had to do something. 

Closing his eyes, Greg pressed his lips to the now-warm metal of the pendant, feeling its slight rough edges under his lips. For the first time in months, Greg allowed himself to swamp in his memories of Mycroft. Sweet memories, memories of Mycroft’s touch and his voice, his shoulders and the line of his back under Greg’s fingers. 

It took a moment, but Greg breathed in a sigh as the image of Mycroft, on top of the skyscraper, his face framed in gold his hair burning auburn filled his mind’s eye. The soft feeling of Mycroft’s lips on his own, replacing the metal pendant Greg held there, a poor replacement. 

In the beginning, all the memories had been too much. They held too much… _feeling, _for Greg to be able to think about without spiralling. 

For a moment, though, he could push all that anger and frustration away. For a moment, with the solid evidence of Mycroft’s life pressed to his lips, Greg could remember without sharp, shooting pain. 

For a moment, just for a moment, it was enough. 


	13. Rebellion

‘Stamford was supposed to be back by now,’ said Elizabeth Smallwood, pressing her long hands into the glass table top. At the head, the windows behind him, Mycroft sat, his chin resting on his steepled fingers. The sun was rising behind him, setting the tops of the trees alight. Light shone past him onto the table, casting long, warm shadows. 

The dawn light leaking in through the window gave the whole room a hazy, almost dreamy quality.

However, Elizabeth Smallwood, the bright blue screens flashing behind her, stood to his left, her hands on the table, as she leaned forward to look into Mycroft’s eyes. At the far end of the table, in front of the door, Culverton sat, a small smile adorning his features. 

‘Stamford will return,’ said Mycroft, smiling with a surety he didn’t feel. He knew it had been weak, that desperation he had felt to get a message to Gregory, but it wasn’t something he could really help. Perhaps he should’ve gone himself, snuck in somehow, but that was all the more risky. 

He had weighed up the costs and the benefits. 

Stamford had been the best choice. The Head Gamemaker wouldn’t be questioned going to the Victor’s Ball, where Smallwood or Smith would have been. Mycroft, more than the both of them combined, especially seeing as he was still supposedly dead. 

Behind Elizabeth, the flashing blue screens lit up with a map of the forest, the Silo a bright red dot in the centre. Other, smaller dots darted around the map, signalling other hovercraft, coming and going. Some were heading to District Twelve, some were just patrolling, looking out for those approaching the Silo. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘For now, we must attend to other matters.’ 

‘Indeed,’ said Culverton, leaning forwards and also folding his hands on the table in front of him. ‘We must talk of the matter of District Five.’ 

Mycroft held up a hand. ‘We had a deal, Culverton. We go to District Five next. But not yet.’ 

‘What are we waiting for?’ asked Culverton, leaning back and spreading his hands wide, a laugh bubbling up from his flabby throat. Mycroft looked directly at him, raising an eyebrow.

‘We are waiting for our establishment of District Twelve to be complete. We are waiting for its defences to be up and running well enough to move our troops from the District to District Five. It will take a lot more manpower to take District Five than it did to take District Twelve. Magnussen knows we’re coming for the Districts now.’ 

‘Exactly!’ snapped Culverton, leaning forwards again. ‘We must strike now before Magnussen has a chance to move troops into District Five. It won’t be long before he can build up enough Peacekeepers where we can no longer fight them off.’ 

‘We will strike before that time comes. And before long, the issue of the Peacekeepers I intend to be solved.’ 

‘You have a plan?’ asked Elizabeth, raising a brow at him. Mycroft nodded his head. 

‘Indeed I do,’ he said, with absolute surety. He knew what he was doing. He was in control. 

Stamford not having arrived yet was an issue. It was an issue Mycroft didn’t want to think too much upon, for the implications of what it meant were he captured were dire. 

But this? This he did know. 

‘Gregory Lestrade,’ said Mycroft, ‘is important. You know who he is. Both of you do. And you know who his father was. You know what he means to Peacekeepers from District Two. When we have him at our side, then we can make a move. Undermine the Peacekeepers from the inside.’ 

Culverton leaned back, letting out a loud burst of laughter. ‘And now he shows his true colours,’ said Culverton, between laughs. ‘This is a ploy, Holmes. A ploy just to get your precious Silver Knight back. Why? So you can have someone to warm your bed?’ 

Mycroft got to his feet. There was a sudden anger boiling under his skin. Culverton had taken a step too far. 

Constantly on his head, Culverton had been nipping at his heels the whole time, searching for any sign of weakness, and now he had found it in Gregory, all wrapped up with a silver bow. Culverton had been constantly feeling out Mycroft’s ragged edges, running fat fingers over their seams. 

‘Enough!’ Mycroft snapped. ‘Smith, that is enough!’ 

Culverton got to his feet as well, his face curling into an unpleasant smile. ‘Enough of what, _Holmes?’ _he bit out. ‘You told us that it was a momentary distraction, I believe your words were. A moment of weakness. That you weren’t the boy you were in the Games. That you were prepared to be a leader.’ 

Mycroft felt frustration building in his throat. It made him clench his fists, where they were pressed against the cool of the glass tabletop. 

‘Yet,’ said Culverton, ‘Here you are. You have sent one of our most powerful allies into enemy territory just to leave a clue for your Silver Knight. Now, he has not returned. You refused to remain a secret for any longer than you had to, and you revealed yourself to be alive, despite my warnings that it would be far more useful if you remained dead. Just to comfort Lestrade. 

‘Now, you demand we use precious resources to get him out of Magnussen’s clutches, with no real evidence of a reward. You have not proven to me that the Peacekeepers from District Two will even follow him. And why would they? Because he bears his father’s name?’

Culverton fell silent, standing and spreading his hands, shaking his head. Mycroft looked up from the glass table to look at Elizabeth Smallwood. She too was frowning, her forehead creased. It was difficult to tell whether she was standing on Culverton’s side, or his own. Culverton and he had always represented a dilemma for her. On the one hand, she knew that Culverton was ruthless in a way that was needed. Mycroft knew it himself. 

Smith was ruthless in a way that Mycroft knew he needed to be. That constant reminder of what was needed was better than Mycroft getting caught up in what he wanted. There needed to be brutality, cruelty here. There needed to be that show of strength. 

For many in the Resistance, kindness and mercy did not belie strength. It implied weakness. Culverton appealed to them, because he appeared strong for his cruelty, his brutality. 

On the other hand, Mycroft had to be kind. He had to be merciful. He had to be generous, and he had to rail against unnecessary cruelty. Before Gregory he had agreed with Culverton wholeheartedly. He had agreed that they needed to be cruel to the Capitol. Brutal, ruthless, all those things that Culverton was advocating for. 

He had to break the circle. 

That was what it was. A circle of brutality and cruelty. A circle he had to break by choosing to be kind, just as Gregory always chose to be kind. But it was never easy. 

Elizabeth, he knew, had the same compunctions. She knew what was needed, what was necessary to win the war. But she also knew that there had to be kindness for the new world they wanted to build. There had to be kindness, and mercy. 

Mycroft could only hope that knowledge was enough to sway her. 

Because he needed Gregory. He needed Gregory, because he could already feel himself sliding. He could feel himself sliding back to being that person, that boy, that _monster, _who thought it was better to kill. Who thought it better to be cruel rather than kind. Who thought it better to be brutal, instead of forgiving. Heartless, instead of loving. 

He could feel the tendrils of it creeping into his mind. All the time he spent cooped up in this room, drawing up plans and working out ways to _win, _and he would think how much easier it would be. How much easier if he just let Culverton do what he was so clearly itching to do. How much easier it would be just to be cruel, and brutal, merciless, unkind. Choose war instead of forgiveness. 

He needed Gregory to remind him that it was pointless. That in the end, no matter how much blood was spilt, they were all just going to have to sit down and talk. 

That’s all a war ever was. People killing one another until enough people had died that other people, those who had lost their loved ones, realised how to be strong. Realised how to just forgive, how to sit down, and talk. How to be good, merciful, and kind, all those things Mycroft wanted for the new world. 

Mycroft wanted to stop all that bloodshed before it ever had to happen. He wanted to stop all those dead people, all those heartbroken mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons and daughters from being heartbroken in the first place. 

But that was the place they were quickly barrelling towards. Not unless Mycroft had it in himself to convince the others to choose the hard path, the _right _path, rather than the easier one. 

Beside him, Elizabeth was looking at Mycroft, her eyes creasing in focus around the corners, as if she was trying to read him like a book. A moment later, she took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and her hands relaxed beside her. 

‘Holmes is correct,’ she said. ‘We must wait to regroup before we attempt an invasion of District Five. We have the manpower to deal with a larger force that is currently present in the District, and we must fortify our protection of District Twelve before we can safely liberate District Five. Otherwise Magnussen will simply steal it out from under our noses. In the meantime, we can make a plan to retrieve the Silver Knight.’ 

Mycroft smiled. Elizabeth had made the right choice.

At the other end of the table, Culverton frowned. ‘Why do we need the Silver Knight freed?’ he asked. ‘Wouldn’t it be better for the Silver Knight to die at Magnussen’s hands? It would make him into a rallying cry. A martyr, for the cause. All the Districts would know that it was Magnussen who killed Lestrade. His death could be the key factor that brings the Districts together once and for all.’ 

Mycroft felt his blood run cold. 

He had to think of something, and fast. To his horror, he could see that Elizabeth was pondering that plan, looking at Culverton warily. Smallwood seemed to be considering what Culverton was saying. Mycroft had to nip this in the bud. 

Gregory couldn’t die. 

That was unacceptable. That was entirely unacceptable. That was not something he could ever allow to happen. It simply… didn’t register as a remote possibility of a solution. 

‘No!’ Mycroft snapped, slamming a hand on the table. ‘That is a gamble we cannot risk taking. Gregor… the Silver Knight is far more useful to us alive than dead. He will inspire the Districts to stand by us, lend their resources to our cause. He brings people together for love of him, and all his death would do would be to rip the Districts apart. 

‘Were Magnussen to have him killed, he would certainly do it while Gr… the Silver Knight is in the Districts. Which District is uncertain. Then, he would use the Districts as a scapegoat for Lestrade’s death. The Districts would turn on one another, blaming one another for the death of the Silver Knight. 

‘Do not presume that the Districts are so unified they would not turn on one another, _Culverton. _There is resentment between the Districts for their wild variation in wealth and favour from the Capitol. This resentment runs deep. Lestrade’s death would cause nothing but disunity and disharmony. It would not be a rallying cry, and Lestrade would certainly not serve as a martyr.’ 

Elizabeth nodded sharply. ‘Mycroft is correct, Culverton. It is a gamble. Lestrade at this point is an absolute certainty of unification. He will most definitely serve to unify people. He is the symbol of all we are fighting for. But dead… we cannot ensure that he will be a rallying cry, or a martyr. Especially not if Magnussen is smart about it. Which he most certainly is.’ 

Culverton frowned, his forehead creasing, and his hands folding in his lap as he sat back down in his chair. ‘Very well,’ he nodded. ‘We hold off on the invasion of District Five.’ 

Mycroft nodded, sharply. ‘We need to draw up plans for the extraction of Lestrade from—‘ 

Suddenly, Mycroft was cut off by the sound of the door banging open. Anthea walked in, followed by a young man in the black combat gear, his helmet off his face to reveal thin, sallow cheeks, a patchy beard and small, piggish eyes. 

‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded Elizabeth, turning to look at the door with a frown already forming on her face. 

‘Captain Anderson,’ said the man, saluting sharply. ‘I have just returned from attempted retrieval of Commander Stamford.’ 

‘And?’ asked Smallwood, her voice sharp around the edges. Anthea was looking at him, sadness around the edges of her features. Mycroft snapped his eyes back to Anderson, just in time to see the man toss a mangled object onto the glass table in front of him. It slid across, coming to a halt in front of Mycroft. 

It was the watch he had given Stamford. 

The front face was mangled and shattered, ripped aside crudely to reveal the sword beneath, dully reflecting the dawn light. 

‘That was all we found at the agreed pick up point,’ said Anderson, frowning. ‘Commander Stamford was not there.’

Mycroft bit his lip. At the other end of the table, Culverton was frowning as well, but Mycroft could see the corners of his mouth were tense, as if he was trying to suppress a smile. 

To his left, Elizabeth was looking between Captain Anderson and the watch on the table, her watery blue eyes focused, narrowed. 

‘Thank you, Captain,’ said Culverton, the only one among them who was able to speak. Mycroft could feel a lump in his throat which he couldn’t swallow, a sudden sense of nausea washing through him. ‘Dismissed.’ 

‘General Holmes. Commander Smallwood. Commander Smith.’ nodded Anderson, before turning sharply on his heel and leaving the room. Anthea remained standing inside, a slim shadow just by the door. She went entirely unnoticed by the other two in the room, waiting silently for Mycroft. 

Her eyes darted between him and the watch, as Mycroft reached out for the band. It had been torn off, clearly, the small metal clasp bent out of shape. The face had clearly been forced apart by a pair of pliers, the clever mechanism entirely broken. 

‘Well,’ said Culverton, softly, his voice smooth. ‘It seems that we have a problem. It seems, Mycroft, that the mission you asked Stamford to go on has proven his undoing.’ 

Mycroft searched, desperately, for what to say. But there wasn’t any response. He could already feel his temples throbbing. 

‘Stamford isn’t dead,’ said Smallwood, her voice soft. ‘Magnussen would never allow that to happen. Stamford is far too valuable simply to be killed.’ 

‘Indeed,’ said Mycroft, his voice croaky. ‘He is, however, in the Capitol. This is Magnussen’s doing.’ 

‘Then he’s as good as dead,’ Culverton murmured, barely hiding his joy. Stamford had always sided with Mycroft over him on all matters. It had never been a contest. Mike was too kind, too gentle, too generous. ‘Not to mention that the Silo is in danger, as Stamford knows where it is. He knows everything about us, he knows everything about the Resistance. He is a fount of knowledge about our secrets, and he is now in Magnussen’s hands. Magnussen’s hands, and we all know Magnussen is not above torture.’ 

Mycroft shook. 

This was his fault. All of it. It was his fault that Stamford was now probably going to be tortured. It was his fault. 

‘We have to salvage what we can. The Silo is impenetrable. Even if Magnussen knows where we are, we have defences in place. We have protections. He won’t be able to bomb us, or infiltrate us.’ 

‘Will it be enough?’ asked Culverton, slimily. 

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft, joining the conversation, his voice weak. His thoughts were all jumbled, suddenly. All his mind was screaming was that it was his fault. His fault that one of the kindest men he knew was likely going to be tortured. His fault, his fault, his fault. 

All because of sentiment. His love of Gregory had been what had gotten them into this mess. His need to have Gregory believe. His selfish need to have Gregory know he was alive. 

Selfish, in all the ways that it was possible to be. 

‘Holmes, I think we all can see that this would not have happened were you not determined to deliver a message to Lestrade,’ Culverton slid in, slyly. The corners of his mouth were turning up, his joy palpable in the air. He had something, now. 

‘Culverton may be correct,’ murmured Smallwood. ‘Your adoration of the Silver Knight was plain to see throughout the Games. You miscalculated because of it, Mycroft. I hate to say it, but he is clouding your judgement.’ 

Mycroft didn’t say anything. He couldn’t think of what to say to refute the claim, to counter it in any way, because it was true. Sentiment had clouded him. Sentiment, and his need to be acknowledged by the man he loved. He had underestimated how much it had hurt him; watching Gregory deny that he was alive. He had underestimated how much he needed Gregory to see him as real, and there, waiting for him. 

‘We cannot go ahead with the plan to extract the Silver Knight. Not until we know that it presents more of a risk than a reward.’ 

‘Perhaps,’ said Culverton. ‘However, Mycroft is right. It is a gamble, allowing Magnussen to hold on to both Lestrade and Stamford. Perhaps it would be best to extract the Silver Knight. He could prove useful in name.’ 

Mycroft snapped his head up. 

There was a calculating look on Culverton’s face. A sly look, that Mycroft didn’t like. Culverton had a plan. He had a plan to say something, to do something that wouldn’t help Mycroft. 

‘Mycroft,’ said Culverton, catching his attention. ‘Perhaps, we should extract Lestrade. However, there is something I want to run by you first. This is perhaps a long-term plan. A plan for farther in the future, when we have established a liberated Panem.’ 

Culverton had a plan. He had something he wanted, and he was ransoming Gregory’s rescue over Mycroft’s head to get it. Mycroft knew that it wasn’t just enough any more to have Smallwood on his side. She wasn’t any longer. The loss of Stamford had clearly swayed her to thinking that Mycroft was too clouded by sentiment to think clearly about anything to do with Gregory. 

_Rightfully so_, Mycroft thought to himself bitterly. 

‘Well?’ snapped Mycroft. 

‘I want to hold a final Hunger Games. Once all this is over with. A final Games, but not with the children of the Districts. Twelve of the children of the Capitol, instead. As a punishment for what they have done to us.’ 

Mycroft’s blood ran cold, not for the first time. 

It was cruel, barbaric what Smith was proposing. The Games… the Games were something he’d never forget. Not only for good reasons. The only good thing to come out of it was Gregory. 

The rest… 

The blood, the torture, the fear… The dead faces of small, young children, their blood spilling out over the concrete. Moriarty’s body ripped apart by Darkhounds, underneath a Clock Tower in the dead of the night. 

The pain of the dagger, piercing through his chest. 

Mycroft couldn’t imagine anything crueler. And he knew Culverton knew it. 

But that was the point. Culverton never could forgive, never could show mercy. To him, this was the perfect chance to exercise the revenge Mycroft had been so desperately trying to avoid. 

He knew Culverton was presenting him with a choice. Agree to his plan for a final Games, “final” meaning that they would have another vote afterwards, and another Games would be commissioned, and on and on it went, it would never stop. 

Nobody deserved that. 

The Games were a hot, beating pearl of terror and fear and horror that lived deep in Mycroft’s mind. Whenever he was weak, whenever he felt like he was out of control, it was there. It would expand and fill him and that sensation, that sensation of running and fighting and killing without any other option, without any more time… that was all he wanted. More time. 

The faces of the other Careers, cruel and twisted, revelling in the blood he had spilled for that pleasure. 

That beating pearl? That horrible, twisted thing inside him? 

He held it tight. He had promised himself that no one would ever have to survive that again. No one would ever have to have that pearl of pain and despair and the knowledge that there was never enough time. 

But here he was. 

And the truth was, he had no choice. 

It wasn’t the decision that he knew Gregory would have asked of him. He knew it wasn’t the right choice, or the hard choice, or any of that. But it was the choice he had to make. 

‘Very well,’ nodded Mycroft. Smallwood looked at him, her eyes dark and deeply disappointed. ‘_After _the war is over. After that, then we will implement your idea.’ 

Silence reigned. 

Culverton was smiling, his small face creasing into a cruel little smirk. It made nausea roil in Mycroft’s stomach. 

‘Good,’ murmured Culverton. ‘Then, you are correct. We cannot have the Silver Knight die. We must extract him. I assume, Mycroft, that you already have a plan.’ 

Mycroft inclined his head, suddenly unable to speak. 

‘Then, we are finished here.’ 

Culverton pushed back his chair with a scrape, and stood with a sigh, and a crack of his back. Quickly, he exited the room, slamming the door behind himself. Smallwood was left inside, looking at Mycroft, her eyes deeply sad. 

Over by the door, Anthea was gazing out at him through dark eyes, also deeply disappointed. And Mycroft could already see Gregory’s eyes in his mind. Those deep brown eyes, sad and wide. 

He hated himself. 

‘Mycroft,’ whispered Anthea. ‘How… how could you agree to that?’ 

‘I had no choice,’ he muttered. ‘I cannot let Gregory die.’ 

Anthea was clearly blinking back tears. Elizabeth huffed out a sigh. ‘You have made the wrong decision, Mycroft. I don’t know what you’ve got planned, I don’t know what you think you’re doing. But I bloody hope you can wrangle your way out of this one.’ 

Mycroft shook his head, looking down at his hands, folded on the glasstable in front of him. Between them was the shattered watch. ‘Everything either of you could possibly say has already crossed my mind.’ 

Smallwood nodded, sharply, exiting the room. Anthea was close behind her, casting a final look at Mycroft’s small, somehow reduced form, sitting in the chair, the sun rising behind him. 

***

The train shot through the country-side even faster than Greg had remembered. The green of the country flashed past the window of the dining car, endless fields and lovely forests, cool and dark. Greg even saw a few small animals as they shot past, deer and dogs and other small things that entranced him. 

There were even a couple of horses, bounding over the grass, that he’d seen early in the morning. He had never been this way before - they were going through a place he’d never seen, and it was fascinating. He had spent his whole life cooped up in District Ten, and then to the Capitol and the Arena. Nothing outside of that he’d ever seen before, and here they were. 

They were going to travel across all of Panem. 

Despite the danger he knew he was in, Greg couldn’t help but feel a little bit giddy about the whole thing. It was exciting, getting to see all different people and places. 

John, beside him, was just as excited. He had his small hands pressed up agains the glass, leaving marks, despite Calypso’s repeated tuts. He had been happier this morning, finally happy to eat to his heart’s content, finally happy to look out the window, his navy blue eyes wide with wonder. 

The Capitol had been stifling. It had been as if they had been trapped under glass, and here they were. Finally. It felt a little like an escape, even though Greg knew that going out into the Districts was even more dangerousfor him. Especially now he knew that Magnussen had not been convinced. 

Which meant by extension that the rest of the Districts hadn’t been convinced. 

He knew he didn’t have to worry about the people in the Capitol. 

They always took the easy way. It was easy to believe, in the face of all the propaganda, that Mycroft was dead. That there was a terrorist group just using his face. It was easy to believe that, so they could get back to the important things in their lives. Their parties, their clothes, their makeup, their hair. 

But for the people in the Districts? It was a different story. 

They had all grown up in the hard bit. They had all grown up in the hard part of life. Making hard choices, knowing hard things. Difficulty was in their blood, it was in their bones, written across their flesh by scars. It was harder to believe in Mycroft. Harder to hope, rather than just to give up. 

Yet they did it. Because they were used to things being difficult. This was just another thing to add to the list. 

Perhaps, Greg thought, idly, there were people in the wealthier Districts. In District Two, and in District One. They might not believe in Mycroft. 

But, for now, that wasn’t something he had to worry about. 

The pendant, small as it was, was sitting in his hand. It was real, warm and there, he could touch it, press his lips against it, run his fingers over the hand-carved initials on the back. 

He did. 

Constantly, it felt like, his fingers were moving over the pendant, running over the small letters with the pad of his thumb, over and over again. It was a little ritual he had taken to, in the hours since the party. It felt like he hadn’t ever stopped, even when he had slept. 

‘It’s so pretty,’ whispered John, his voice trembling. ‘It’s like home.’ 

Greg looked out the window, seeing endlessly rolling hills, green and covered in grass and plant life. Animals were grazing on the hills, wild boar and horses, sheep and cattle that didn’t seem to belong to anyone. Birds flew overhead, singing out to one another. At least, Greg thought that was what they were doing. 

All he could hear from in here was the slick sound of the train over the tracks, and the low murmur of voices. Calypso, Clara and Dimmock were all talking around the table. 

Greg knew he should be paying attention. He hadn’t said much at all since the party, and he knew it was worrying all three of them. He just… hadn’t known what to say. 

‘Are you excited?’ Calypso suddenly asked him, tapping Greg on the shoulder with one long-nailed finger. Her nails were painted a bright silver, now, long like claws. 

Greg looked at her, narrowing his eyes. Then, he quirked up the corners of his lips, as he realised the perfect thing to say. Reaching up with his hand, he mimed pulling a rope. ‘All aboard the pain train,’ he grunted, ‘Toot toot.’ 

All said with as much sarcasm as he could muster. 

Calypso cocked her head, sighing, exasperatedly. Clara was smiling into her hand, and Dimmock looked away, the corners of his own mouth twisting. Greg smiled, down at his hands. 

‘Don’t say things like that, Greg,’ said Calypso. Greg knew she was being chiding, but he could also hear relief in her voice. 

‘Sorry,’ he murmured, after a moment of silence. ‘I’m sorry for worrying you guys. I just..’ 

‘We know,’ said Clara, cutting him off. ‘You don’t have to explain yourself, Greg. It’s a lot.’ 

Greg smiled at her, thankfully, even as John bounced in the seat beside him, climbing right into his lap and leaning on Greg’s shoulder to look out the window. Greg let a small laugh out, rubbing John’s sides. 

Clara was smiling into her hand again, and Calypso regarded them both, warmly. 

‘Come on,’ she said, suddenly, getting to her feet. ‘I think we’ve had enough food. And John wants to see more of the train, I think.’ 

‘I think you’re right,’ Greg nodded. John looked around, and nodded frantically as well. Clara grinned, and got to her feet. Dimmock followed, reluctantly, as Calypso flounced out of the cabin, and down a dim, silver hallway, towards the end of the train. Greg hadn’t been this way before on this train; there were unfamiliar doors along the hallway, all closed. 

Greg had an urge to try them, to try open them, peek inside and see what was there. He resisted it, though, knowing instinctively that they would definitely be shut to him. 

Calypso led them down the hall towards a bright light at the end. John gripped Greg’s hand, fiercely, as they stepped out into a larger area of the train. The roof and walls were made entirely of glass, the length of the section. It looked back on the track they’d already covered, and out the sides to the meadows either side of the track. 

‘Wow,’ whispered John, his eyes wide as he looked around. 

Thick, comfortable couches lined the edges of the room, clearly for people to sit on and look out. There were a couple of low tables, glasses of water and juice sitting on top of them, along with a few light snacks. 

John immediately beelined for the end of the carriage, hopping up onto the lounge on his knees and peering out the window at the track they’d already ghosted over. Greg smiled at the sight, as John gazed out, his eyes wide. 

Beside him, Clara leant into him, nudging, before going to sit next to John herself. 

Dimmock cleared his throat, quietly, and Greg turned to him, already anticipating something. The other Victor was looking out the window, his hands on his hips. 

‘I know you’re relaxed now we’ve left the Capitol, but—‘

‘—I know,’ said Greg, cutting him off. ‘That’s not why I’m more… I don’t know. I do know though that I am in danger in the Districts. And I will be careful. I’ll make sure I tell everyone that I think Mycroft is dead. Even though Mycroft isn’t.’ 

‘How do you know?’ asked Dimmock, his voice sharp, suddenly. ‘How do you know that it isn’t just a terrorist group using his face?’ 

Greg shot a furtive look around the cabin. He knew they were being watched, so he stepped in closer to Dimmock, and held out his fist, the one which the chain and pendant had been curled in. Turning his fist over, he held it open for a split second, so Dimmock could see, before closing it tightly once more. 

Dimmock stared at his closed fist for a second, before turning wide eyes back onto him. 

‘That’s from Mycroft?’ he questioned. 

‘Yes,’ Greg nodded. 

‘Ah,’ said Dimmock. ‘And that’s why you’ve been… more yourself.’ 

‘It is,’ Greg didn’t deny it. What point was there? 

There was a bubble of joy, forming in his chest. They weren’t in the Capitol anymore, and with the pendant curled in his fist, he felt like problems were a little further away than they usually were. 

He knew it was a lie, he knew that it was all in his head. But for a moment, just a moment, bright light surrounding him, John gasping and pointing and both Clara and Calypso laughing and pointing with him, Greg could smile. 

Because this sort of thing? It was important too. 

Not everything at the moment could be miserable, and cruel. He always could choose how he felt about things. That was what Mycroft had given him. 

The realisation that he had a choice about the way he felt. 

He could feel threatened and depressed, miserable and worried. He could feel panicked, and frustrated, and angry. 

Or, he could choose to face the adversity calmly. And that was the choice he was making. 

John saw the joy all around them. He saw it in the novelty of the train, he saw it in the meadows they were passing, in the sun on their faces, in the blue of the sky, in the fluffy clouds that floated overhead. For a moment, Magnussen had taken that away. 

But all he had needed was a sunny day to bring it back. 

They were at war. Yes. 

But they were also alive, and they were working towards building a new world. A good world. Mycroft was doing it as they spoke. 

And that was enough, for a little while. 

Greg stepped over to sit on the lounge between John and Clara, who had left a spot for him there. Clara leaned into him in a gentle press, before leaning back and looking out the window with a smile. Beside him, John had his hands pressed to the glass, his grin a beam of sunlight. 

Greg smiled. 

There was a soft whooshing noise, though. Building in the backs of his ears, getting closer and closer until—

Darkness closed around them. They were entering a tunnel. The circle of light behind them was getting smaller and smaller, and John’s smile had faded as the sunlight left his bright locks of blond hair, his small, tanned cheeks. There was a door, sealing off the tunnel behind them. Two massive slabs of dark concrete, sliding across and sealing them inside the tube. 

Suddenly, it felt a little like the breath had been sucked from his lungs. The entire cabin went dim, lit only by the lamps on the little tables. Clara’s face bleached of colour, as did Calypso’s and Dimmock’s. 

Greg looked out the side, towards the tunnel walls. They were flashing past, the lights irregular and patchy, flashing in and out. Rows of small, round lights letting out warm-coloured light lined the tunnel, and here and there flashes of white light lit up their cabin. 

The walls of the tunnel swished past, the white light flashing like lightning, lighting up all their faces for a brief moment before it faded. Everyone was entirely silent. 

Then, they flashed past a wall, just as a white light lit up the tunnel in a crack of lightning. On the wall, splashed in stark, black paint was a familiar sign. Greg held it clutched in his palm. 

The sword, piercing the circle. It was there for a moment, and then they were gone, flashing past the symbol. 

Greg tried to peer through the darkness, but no more flashes of light came. There was nothing left. 

He couldn’t see it. 

The pit of his stomach began to roil. ‘Did you see that?’ Greg hissed at Clara. 

She looked at him with wide, dark eyes, as the train emerged from the tunnel. Their faces were suddenly brightly lit up, and Greg looked out the back of the train to see a starkly different image from before. They had emerged from a wall, massively tall with nasty-looking wire all along the top. 

Lining the train tracks were massive, grey monsters of tanks. Peacekeepers were perched atop them, holding nasty looking rifles and wearing masks that entirely masked their features. 

Greg fancied he could hear the clanking from here. 

‘What is this?’ asked Greg, softly, ‘What’s going on?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Clara, standing up to see out better. Greg did the same, and John followed, fumbling for his hand. 

There were Peacekeepers everywhere, riddling the dry, brown coloured fields. Civilians were dotted here and there, their faces gaunt as they looked up from their work to peer at the passing train. 

It was ghostly. 

The roiling, sickening feeling was back in the pit of Greg’s stomach. Frantically, he began to turn the pendant in his fingers again, over and over. 

He didn’t know if it was going to be enough. 


	14. Spoken

The moment they stepped off the train, Greg knew that there was something wrong. Calypso went out first, her audible tutting echoing through the empty train station. Lining the doors of the station were dozens of Peacekeepers, all decked out in white, nasty-looking guns crossing their bodies.

There was dead silence in the station, situated out in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. There was nothing around aside from dead fields, and a couple of dead-eyed, dark skinned workers looked up from their fields, briefly glancing at them, before returning to work. 

‘I say!’ exclaimed Calypso, her voice entirely outraged. ‘This isn’t very festive!’ 

Greg snorted into his hand. That was the understatement of the century. 

Everyone here looked like they were robots, all the dark-skinned workers dim and dozy-eyed, barely recognising them as they passed. The Peacekeepers lining the walkway didn’t acknowledge them at all, their masks a blank face of indifference. 

John had stopped smiling, and had started to cling to Greg’s side again, gripping his hand in two of John’s small ones. Gently, Greg tugged him forwards, towards the group of three Peacekeepers at the exit, waiting for them. The one in the centre had the golden swirls of the Presidential guard on their shoulders. 

Greg looked away from the Peacekeepers they were heading towards, looking out to the fields again. He could see in the distance an industrial-looking town with tall smokestacks, and people tilling dark-brown, almost dead-looking fields. 

It looked miserable here. 

Not for the first time, Greg was reminded of exactly how lucky he’d been, in District Ten. He’d had a house to call his own, a somewhat steady income, even if sometimes it hadn’t been enough to feed both himself and John. 

Now that he was a Victor — he was even luckier. His pantry was always fully stocked, the roof wasn’t at risk of falling down on their heads, and the Capitol’s taxes had been more lenient on his livestock. Most importantly, he’d had far more freedom than it seemed these people had. He wasn’t allowed to leave the District, of course, but he’d been allowed to move around within the District. 

He didn’t have a Peacekeeper looking over his shoulder constantly. Peacekeepers were seen in twos, not in dozens. And they certainly hand’t had the guns they bore here, threatening and dangerous looking. 

Greg remembered, hazily, the public executions when he lived in the main town of District Ten. He remembered from when he was young, the sight of a poor prisoner who probably hadn’t done anything that was particularly morally wrong, be led up onto a platform. He remembered the line of Peacekeepers, all holding out guns that looked exactly like the ones the Peacekeepers here bore. 

And he remembers the sound of them firing. 

Cracking, bursting sound, bright white light, and a bloody hole through the centre of the prisoner’s chest. Several, usually. A bolt of light, straight through their middle, and the life drained from their eyes. Emaciated corpses, falling to the wooden platform. 

The horrific cheers of the crowd, echoing over him, making his stomach roil, before he would turn away. 

Now, he was so thankful that he had been allowed to do that. Now, he was thankful he’d been allowed to move away from the place that they had the public executions in, that he’d no longer been forced to go see them. 

It was a horrible thing, watching someone you didn’t think did anything wrong fall to the ground, limp and lifeless. 

He’d seen it far too many times to count. 

Greg swallowed, harshly, and turned his eyes back to the goal, following after Calypso as she walked behind the Peacekeepers. The Peacekeepers were leading them outside, where a large vehicle was parked outside the station, on a dirt road. Massive, grey wheels sat evenly on the bumpy road. The carriage of the vehicle was high up off the ground and armour-plated. A small door with a set of small, silver steps leading up to it had been prepared. 

The Peacekeepers stood aside, allowing Calypso to get up first. 

She waited, for a moment, expectant, as if one of the Peacekeepers was going to help her up. No such luck. 

With a tut of derision and disapproval, she got up onto the steps herself, and through the door into the vehicle. Another tut of disapproval could be heard. Clearly the interior was even worse than the exterior. 

Swallowing, Greg helped John up the steps, helping him push his small body into the vehicle. He managed to get up, with a grunt, then helped Clara up after John. 

Clara smiled at him, thankfully, offering her own hand to help him up. 

Calypso had been right. 

Inside the vehicle, it looked a little like a smaller version of the stripped-down hovercraft. Uncomfortable-looking, canvas seats were set up, lining the walls of the tiny space. The walls themselves were so close together that Greg knew when he sat down, his knees would be touching the person sitting opposite him. 

Sighing, Greg bent over, stepping into the vehicle further and sliding between the legs to sit down next to John. He leant his head back, closing his eyes for a moment. 

This place felt like a real war zone. Greg knew what a war was — or at least he thought he did. He had this theoretical image of it in his head, armies facing one another, poor people starving, innocent people dying, all in the name of battling ideologies. 

But here, here it felt like he could reach out and touch the war, as if it were a tangible thing. Dry, bare earth, dead-eyed locals, Peacekeepers as far as the eye could see. People suffering, suffering so acutely that it reminded Greg of how much he actually had. How much he had to lose. 

How much he needed to keep fighting. 

With a jolt, the vehicle began to roll forwards. Dimmock had sat down beside him, across from Calypso, Clara and the Peacekeepers. HE had pulled a flask from his pocket, and was taking a sip, the strong scent of alcohol burning in Greg’s nose. 

Greg looked back at Calypso, who was watching him carefully. It was a funny sight, really, the stark contrast between Calypso, in her golden finery, with her hair done and her make-up painted on her face, and the vehicle, which was stark, grey and spartan in every way. 

Calypso cleared her throat. ‘We are going to the Justice Building in the middle of the District,’ she said. ‘There, you will give a speech. It is traditional, of course, for the Victor to give a eulogy for the dead Tributes from this District. For this District, the two Tributes were Surie Linley, and Angus Crest.’ 

Greg nodded his head, something roiling away in his stomach. 

Before they had left the train, Clara had dressed him up in a grey suit, his collar tucked in and his sword-shaped circular pin on his lapel. The pendant from Mycroft sat on his chest, right by his heart. 

‘Here’s the speech,’ said Calypso, holding out a card the size of his two hands, with small, neat lettering on it. 

Greg glanced at it, taking a look at what was written there. It was quite bland, neutral, paying his respects and mentioning some small things about the Tributes from this District, who they were and what they had done in the Games. Both had died on the first day. Both had died in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. 

Suddenly, Greg saw a name, a small name beside the time and date of both Surie and Angus’s deaths. They had been killed by Mycroft. 

Greg couldn’t think, then. 

It was hard to reconcile, sometimes. That Mycroft, kind, loving, generous Mycroft, Mycroft who had fought for everyone, was fighting for everyone in a war that wasn’t his own, it was hard to think of him killing people. But here it was, the tangible reminder that he had cut down other Tributes deliberately and cruelly within minutes of one another. 

Greg could vaguely remember Surie Linley and Angus Crest. Surie had all that blonde hair, small and thin, her hair messy and looking a little like hay. Angus Crest had been small as well. He’d been wiry, though, with arms like cables, clinging to the walls in the Training Centre under the tower. 

And both had been killed by Mycroft. Taller, stronger, faster Mycroft. Neither would have stood a chance against him. 

It was hard for Greg to reconcile. 

And it was even harder, knowing he was going to have to face the families of the tributes his lover had killed. He would have to look them in the eye and say he couldn’t save them. That Mycroft didn’t save them. 

Mycroft hadn’t had a choice. He had to remember that. Mycroft didn’t have a choice, or at least he didn’t think he did. 

If Mycroft didn’t kill them, one of the other Careers would have done it. At least he could have counted on Mycroft to kill them kindly. At least he could count on Mycroft to have made it as painless as possible. He hoped. 

That was one thing he remembered from the Arena. Seeing Mycroft kill, and watching the other Tribute not do it in a way typical of Careers. He hadn’t enjoyed killing people. He hadn’t enjoyed murdering them. Not like the other Careers, who relished in spilt blood. 

The difference between Moriarty and Mycroft had always been stark, there, and plain to see. 

That was what he had to remember. 

There was also the sudden guilt. The sudden guilt of knowing that he had survived, and these Tributes hadn’t. For some reason, some unknown reason, he had been deemed luckier. It wasn’t skill, it wasn’t talent, it was luck. Pure and simple. Luck, and the love of a man skilled and talented enough to win. 

‘We’re here!’ squealed Calypso, as the vehicle ground to a halt. Greg swallowed his nerves, forced the burning on the backs of his eyes to recede, and waited for it to begin. 

***

‘Big smiles, big smiles,’ said Calypso, her hand strangely strong on his back as she pushed him out the door. The door, once a simple rectangle of light, finally became a coalesced image as he emerged out into the sun. Squinting, waiting for his eyes to adjust, he could make out the long, thin form of a microphone in front of him. 

It shone silver under the sunlight, tall and imposing, waiting for him to step up and speak into it. In front of him, a sea of people. Most were tan-skinned, varying shades of dark colours laid out before him. They were all thin, slightly gaunt.

Many were older, with greying hair, but Greg could see some young children, silent and still as statues, looking up at him. 

They had all done this many times before. 

Greg glanced down at the cards in his hands, before stepping up to the microphone, and taking another look around the square. Everyone’s eyes were on him, aside from the Peacekeepers, who stood lining the square, and in a row along the front of the raised stage, all with hands on their guns. 

The eyes were silent. Entirely silent. Not a tear was shed. 

They looked at him, waiting, expectant. 

On the far side of the square, on two other, raised platforms, two families stood. One was full of young boys, silent and staring at him, from behind their’s mother’s skirts. Behind them, projected on a massive screen, a boy Greg recognised as Angus Crest was moving in a loop, turning his head then turning it back, quietly blinking, his shoulders moving in slow, even breaths. It was like a taunt, as if they had somehow brought the boy back to life, and were now filming him live. Watch it long enough, though, and Greg knew that it would be a loop. He would blink the same way on repeat. He would turn his head the same way, over and over again. 

It was taunting. 

It was as if they had somehow captured a soul in the screen, and were playing it out for him in a long, drawn out torture. 

Greg didn’t want to look anymore. 

The same thing was recreated on the other side for Surie Linley. Her family were fairer, and they appeared to be more well-off. They all had mounds of yellow, straw-like hair piled on their heads, and unlike Angus Crest’s family, wore well-sown, nicely creased if practical clothing. 

Clearly more well off, yet no less distraught. There was a single daughter, her two parents quietly looking at him, unable to judge, but the daughter… the daughter was glaring at him, her jaw clenched, her small fists balled at her sides. 

Greg couldn’t fault her for that. 

He had survived, where her sister had not. That was the truest tragedy of them all. 

Greg didn’t feel like he deserved it. He had never felt like he’d deserved it. When he thought Mycroft was dead, he had battled that. How was he in any way more worthy to survive than Mycroft, or Suzie, or Alinta, or anyone else in the Games?

It was simple. 

He wasn’t. He was just fucking lucky. 

Greg cleared his throat, looked down at the cards in his hands, and began to read, his voice echoing through the square, magnified. Yet, somehow, it still sounded weak to his ears. 

‘Thank you,’ he began, hollowly. ‘I am honoured to be here with you, and with the families of your fallen Tributes.’ 

Here, he paused. 

Looking down at the cards, they were all filled with insincere words of sympathy, and echoes of Magnussen’s words, all perfectly and neatly written out, waiting for him. That was exactly what he was _supposed _to say. 

But fuck that. 

‘Surie and Angus did not survive long in the Games,’ he said. There were murmurs through the crowd, but he ignored them. ‘But they fought with honour, and dignity. They fell under the blade of Mycroft Holmes, for which I am eternally sorry. They both fell far, far too young. 

‘They both had so much longer to live. Years longer; years which were so cruelly taken from them.’ 

The whispers were louder. Greg could feel eyes from the Justice Building behind him, boring into the back of his neck. He could also hear the buzzing of the cameras, heading closer towards his face. He ignored it. 

‘Our lives aren’t just measured in years,’ he said. ‘They are measured in the lives of those that we touch. I didn’t know Surie or Angus, and I’m sorry for it. But they have touched my life, and all the lives around them, for the better. 

‘I know that without Surie, and without Angus, I would not be standing here today.’ 

The whispers were full blown conversations, now. People were shifting around, their eyes on his face, conversing with the people either side of them. Up on the podium, in front of their dead loved ones, the families were crying. Angus’s mother was quietly weeping into her hands, and the young boys had all tucked their faces into her skirt. 

Surie’s mother had tucked her face into her father’s chest, and her father had his head bowed. Her sister had large tears, rolling down her face, and for a moment, just a moment, Greg could vividly see Suzie’s small face, with her tears and blood smeared over her eyelids. 

‘To recognise that, and knowing it doesn’t ever make up for the injustice done, I want to give a month of my winnings to both of the families, every year, for as long as I live.’

Angus’s mother, for whom this would mean her entire life would change, had looked up from her hands. She was looking at Greg with wide, eyes, her palms shaking, and a pained smile spreading over her face. Greg knew this had never been done before, not by any of the other Victors in years’ past. Greg knew it was a first. 

Greg also knew that it painted a massive target on his back, a target which Magnussen would be watching and waiting for, his beady eyes greedy for any chance to strike like a serpent in the grass. 

A round of clapping rose amongst the people of the District, their faces smiling in joy at the simple act. Greg made his choice, right then and there. As a Victor, he had far more than he would ever need in this life, or in John’s life. He would donate a month of it to every District’s families. He had enough, and a month of his winnings would be enough for the two families for a year. 

But Greg couldn’t hear the cheers. He couldn’t hear the clapping. All he could see was the families. Angus Crest was young. He couldn’t be much older than John. And Surie… Surie looked even younger. 

They were both so very young. So very innocent. 

The unfairness of it bit into Greg’s soul. 

‘All of us… all of the Tributes… we were all too young. Surie and Angus were too young. I see all the young Tributes who died in the flowers outside my house. I see all the young Tributes in the children, running in the market in the village where I live. I see all the young Tributes in my son, John. All of them were taken from us. 

‘I couldn’t save any of them. I couldn’t save Surie. I couldn’t save Angus. It is something that haunts me every day. No one should ever have to feel like this. And I know that no countless number of apologies could make up for it. 

‘But for what it’s worth; I’m sorry.’ 

There was silence. The people in the square were all looking up at him, their eyes alive. They were all shifting about, roiling like a chaotic ocean after a storm. But they were all deathly silent. 

Then, one woman in the middle of the crowd raised his hand in a silent gesture. She was old, her hand gnarled and her face winkled like old paper. Her silver hair was shocking, surprising against her dark skin. But she was raising her hand, extending a skinny, almost brittle-looking arm, clothed in ragged old fabric. It was an old gesture. An old symbol of power, the curled fist, raised high into the air above her head. 

Slowly, others raise their fists, in complete silence. The square echoes with the rustling sounds of people raising their fists into the air. A forest of hands, a forest of balled fingers, of silent faces. 

People screaming without opening their mouths. 

Screaming at the injustice. Railing against the system. 

This is the resistance. We are the rebellion. 

Guns cocking. 

The sound of guns cocking echoed through the square, as people were pushed aside. The waves of Peacekeepers flooded out into the square, splitting the people apart like water. People flowed around, pushed aside, their fists falling. 

The Peacekeepers reached out, and grabbed the old woman, and Greg pushed aside the microphone, leaping off the stage and trying to push past the Peacekeepers. Adrenaline pumped through his veins; he knew what was going to happen next, unless he stopped it. 

He had to stop it. 

‘No!’ Greg screamed, trying to push at the white-gloved hands that were grabbing him around his upper arms. ‘No, no, listen to me!’ 

The Peacekeepers didn’t respond, just grabbing him and pulling, tugging and he was being towed away. Inevitable, really. He was being dragged back up the steps, away from the old woman. 

She was stoic in the face of it, stoic as the Peacekeepers grabbed her around her waist and dragged her by her thin, brittle arms up onto the stage. The square was a mess of screaming people, crying people, the screens up the back flickering to black. 

Silently, she was facing her fate.

She was pushed down to her knees right where Greg had been standing not a moment earlier, her body tiny compared to the crowd, compared to the Peacekeepers who held her firm, pushing her small, hunched back over in a painful-looking way. 

Greg fought and twisted against the grip of the Peacekeepers, but it was no use. Their grip was like iron, dragging him back through the doors. They began to swing inwards, the screams of the square outside still echoing through. 

The last thing he saw was the woman, glancing at him, her face entirely stoic, as a gun was pointed at her head. 

A flash of white light, and an echoing bang. 

The doors slid closed. 

‘No!’ screamed Greg, ‘No, let me out, let me go, let me go!’ 

‘Lestrade!’ snapped Dimmock, reaching out and slapping a hand over Greg’s face, as the Peacekeepers held him firm. His cheek exploded in white hot pain, as Calypso watched on, horrified. 

Tears were pressing red hot against the backs of his eyes, burning a hole through his eyelids. He shook his head. 

‘I didn’t… I didn’t mean for anyone to get killed,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.’ 

‘That’s what happens,’ said Dimmock. ‘You put your foot out of line, and people die. That’s the deal, Lestrade. That’s the fucking deal.’ 

Greg shook his head, again, as if he could shake it enough and the image of the dead woman would vanish. 

Dimmock grabbed him around his upper arm, dragging him out of the grip of the Peacekeepers, and dragging him towards a dark corner of the building, away from Calypso. 

Greg could only thank whatever power was out there that Clara had kept John in the other room. John couldn’t see this. 

‘You need to convince everyone that Mycroft is dead. You need to convince everyone that you are not a symbol of a rebellion, you are just another Victor. You aren’t special, you’re just normal, a normal, heartbroken teen with nothing against the system.’ 

‘But it’s wrong!’ snapped Greg. ‘Can’t you see that? Can’t you see that it’s wrong? I want to push back! I want to push back and rebel and resist, all of those things Mycroft was talking about. I _need _to.’ 

‘No!’ Dimmock bit back. ‘No, you don’t. You need to survive. That’s just Holmes’ whimsical dreams getting into your head. None of it is real.’ 

‘It is!’ Greg replied. ‘It is, I promise, it is! There is an end to this… this injustice! There has to be.’ 

Dimmock shook his head. ‘You’re wrong,’ he murmured. ‘There isn’t an end. Don’t you see? This has happened before. People… sparking a rebellion. And they lost, and the wheel just keeps on spinning. 

‘That’s what’s going to happen this time, because that’s what always happens. Sometimes they get a bit of a foothold, but it always collapses again. It’ll happen to this rebellion with Mycroft’s face, whether he’s alive or not. It’ll fail, and next year they’ll roll you out again. They’ll send you on Flickerman again, and Magnussen’ll make you play the heartbroken teen, the inspiring, brave Silver Knight, symbol of the Capitol’s kindness and generosity. And that’ll be the end of it.’ 

Dimmock’s words bit deeply into him, sinking into his shoulders like claws. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair. 

‘Listen to me, Lestrade,’ snapped Dimmock. ‘You’re going to go the rest of the Districts. You’re going to read out the speeches off the cards that Calypso has written for you. And then you’ll get to go back to your little shack on the hill, and then you’ll be rolled out again in six months’ time.’ 

Greg bowed his head. There was nothing he could say. 

***

For the other Districts, he had to be different. He _was _different. District Nine they went to next. Greg had expected that Magnussen wouldn’t let him go to his home District, even though it was customary for the Victor to go there at least once on the Victory Tour. 

They also skipped District Five. 

Greg didn’t dwell on that for too long.

Everywhere they went there were people gathered in front of their Justice Buildings, waiting for him to give a speech, waiting for him to speak his mind. They were always disappointed. 

As they went up the Districts, the Justice Buildings became more elaborate, the celebrations more ardent. People were dressed nicer and nicer, and there were fewer people with dark skin, more people with lighter, less tanned skin. 

Greg had once read a book, when he was young. An illegal book, one his father gave him. It described the world before the Fall, before Panem. It described a world not without issues, not imperfect, but more free than the one he lived in. 

Yet in this world was described a difference, a fundamental difference between people of light coloured skin and people of dark coloured skin. It described a time when they were shot in the streets, attacked, protested against by those lucky enough to hold the rights. Those lucky enough to be born with fair skin. 

It didn’t make sense to Greg. Not at the time. 

But now it did. Now he could see how people were distributed and treated. Now he could see that the darker your skin was, the poorer you likely were. 

That wasn’t fair. 

Yet another injustice to add to the pile, he guessed. 

And for the first time, he became conscious of his own skin colour. Of how his own skin was tanned by the sun, creased from hours working outside with the animals in the baking heat. How different his skin was from Clara’s, or Calypso’s; with their milky pale skin. 

Mycroft had told him, back in the Arena; the only justice that they would get was that which they would make for themselves. 

The truth of that burned inside Greg. It burned inside Greg; that idea that they would have to fight to build a fair world, a just world. Otherwise, if they sat back and waited, there would be no justice. 

But he couldn’t say that out loud. He knew that if he did, people would rebel. People would rise. For him, that would be a death sentence. 

So he waited. 

The speeches all rolled by, one after the other, always the same lines and verses, read out to people who would become angrier and angrier over the course of the reading. Their faces would morph from static apathy to raging, boiling anger, roiling about in the crowd. 

They would scream out to him as he read out the lines, begging him to speak his mind. He couldn’t let the words he wanted to say pour out of his mouth, though. He had to control himself. 

He had to control himself, and say the lines. 

In District Eight; ‘I’d like to pay my respects to the Tributes of this District. They fought nobly, and bravely. I’d like to share with you the sorrows of your losses. The Tributes of this District brought honour to their families, and pri—‘ 

Out in the middle of the crowd, a group of people raised their fists to him, raised them out in the square. Immediately, as if they had been warned this was coming, the Peacekeepers cut through the crowd, splitting people apart in an effort to reach the raised fists. They pushed people, shoved people with little regard to their age. 

And they grabbed the raised fists of the group of young men and women. They grabbed them around the arms, and led them away, the commotion interrupting Greg in the middle of his rehearsed, dead-eyed, soulless speech. 

The Peacekeepers dragged them off, kicking and shouting out to Greg, reaching out to him in the hopes he would save them. It burned inside him that he couldn’t, burning in the pit of his belly and making his temples feel like they had been compressed together, pushed in by a clamp over his head. He wanted to help them. He wanted to draw a sword and fight off the Peacekeepers, fight off the injustice. 

But he couldn’t. 

He could feel Magnussen’s eyes on his back in a way he hadn’t felt that first speech. He had realised that even though they had left the Capitol, he was still watching. Always watching. 

The cameras would buzz like bees. 

Yet, still unsure, he glanced over his shoulder to where Dimmock was standing, his hands folded in front of him. Dimmock hadn’t remained inside the Justice Building since the first speech. He hadn’t let Greg walk out there alone. 

Certainly it wasn’t a sign of unity. It wasn’t camaraderie. 

Greg knew that he was doing it to make sure that he was constantly reminded of what he needed to do. He needed to protect the Capitol. He needed to seem to be making an effort to calm the people, not rouse them. He needed to seem like he was doing everything he could to convince the people he was a stupid, love-struck teen, not a symbol for a rebellion. 

Even though it burned him to have to do it. 

Dimmock nodded, sharply, indicating for him to continue. 

‘—we… we are all of us united. Victors and vanquished. We serve a common purpose…’ 

In District Four; he finished his speech. 

‘—The Districts, and the Capitol, together as one. Panem today. Panem tomorrow. Panem forever.’ 

The words burned him. They burned in his throat, they burned in his head, they made his head spin and his heart beat dully in his chest, his breaths rattling from his lungs. The people were _screaming. _

People needed him. And Greg couldn’t help them. 

His greatest weakness. 

In the middle of the crowd, a woman held up her fist and started calling out to him, her voice loud and echoed by a thousand others in the square; ‘Tell us what you really think!’ 

They were begging him, pleading with him, asking him to help them. Asking him to help them escape, help them to freedom. Be the person that they needed him to be. 

Greg didn’t even know if he could do it. He wasn’t allowed to, of course. Not if he wanted to keep breathing. Magnussen had eyes everywhere; he would know if Greg put a single toe out of line. But he didn’t even know if he could. 

He wanted to tell these people not to listen to him. He wasn’t what they needed. He wasn’t the Silver Knight. Everything around him, Dimmock, Clara, Calypso, all the Peacekeepers and the people; they wanted someone who Greg didn’t really think existed. 

He wasn’t that person. He never could be. 

They needed Mycroft far more than they needed him. Because Magnussen was right about him. He’d just been a stupid, self-sacrificing boy who hadn’t known what he was doing. He hadn’t meant it to be this way. He knew that he wanted to rebel, he wanted to resist, he wanted to push back. But he didn’t think it would happen. 

And he certainly didn’t think it would be _him _that people would turn to. He would think it would be Mycroft. But here people were, reaching out to him, asking of him to be that person, someone he never could be. Not really. 

Just like every screaming child in history he’d made a decision without thinking about the consequences, and now he was paying the price. Magnussen would be delighted. 

Yet there were words, splashed on signs, written on concrete walls, held up by people in the square on old ratty bits of card. 

_The odds are never in our favour. _

_ Silver Knight._

_ Resist. _

And the symbol of the Silver Knight, repeated over and over again on bits of card, painted on the walls. Whenever they were spotted by Peacekeepers, the white-wearing guards would always move between him and the message. They would always try and stop him from seeing it. 

It never worked, not really. 

Greg always caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. 

The suffering. People were suffering. Children, starving. He knew these things were happening. 

He guessed, for a moment, that wasn’t something Magnussen had intended on. If anything, this tour had served to radicalise him further. Seeing the suffering in person; people in alleyways, people being shot, people being beaten, forced to work til their hands were worn and bloody… 

The injustice of it was red hot. 

Greg could do nothing. He’d never felt so impotent in his life. 

Magnussen had succeeded in finding a way to torture him. Surrounding him with people who needed help. People he could help, just by speaking out. And instead he was choosing the selfish option. He was choosing to preserve his own life instead of acting to help them. Lifting them up. 

He knew it was the wise choice. He knew it was the smart choice. He knew that preserving his own life, acting the way Magnussen wanted him to; it was what was best. He knew that. Live to fight another day. 

It didn’t change the fact that what he was doing felt selfish. And that feeling drained him — it left him feeling empty and tired, left rings under his eyes and nightmares in his head. 

In District Two; a little blonde girl greeted him, a nasty quirk to her lips despite her young age. Her pledge: she was going to volunteer when she was older. Just like him. 

No girl should think like that. No girl should be taught to think like that. No girl should ever have that nasty quirk to her lips. No one should treat the Games like a _game. _

It had never been and would never really be a game. 

***

It was the middle of the night. They were travelling between District Two and District One, and Greg lay awake, his eyes wide open, John snoozing next to him, tucked against his side. His mind was rushing too fast, too much, too far. 

Everything was swamping him, all the feelings and emotions and the burning rage. It reminded him of Sally, of the way Sally would get angry, the way she would rant. 

He had felt this before. He had felt it a few weeks after Mycroft died, when the grief was fresh and raw, when the hole in the middle of his chest, ripped wide open and still ragged at the edges, bled out over the grass. 

The nightmares, of course. 

Magnussen’s long, slick fingers winding over his bare skin. Magnussen’s fish smell itching inside his nostrils, a rotten smell, salty and briny like the ocean. And the spires of the Capitol, sticking up into a grey sky like the teeth of some monstrous animal. 

The train ground to a halt. 

It was a loud, grinding noise, as the brakes were forcibly applied. A low humming, and then sudden, loud banging coming from the roof above his head. The roof he had been staring at for the last few hours. 

It was a biting sound, like the sound of nails against a chalkboard. The screeching of metal against metal almost sounded like bones scratching together. 

Underneath him, the train jumped and bounced, sending the whole carriage rocking under the weight. Objects slid over the floor, ornaments off the tables, the chairs slipping over the carpet. Beside him, the lamp on the side table banged and bounced on the floor.

Jolting, Greg wound an arm around John, pressing his son tighter against his side. John wriggled, protested. 

The dim lights of the train outside his window flickered. Greg had grown used to the soft light pouring in through the windows, the gentle humming of the tracks underneath him that it felt strange for it no longer to be there. 

‘What… what’s going on?’ John’s tiny, tremulous voice came. Greg shook his head, unable to speak for the lump of fear that had grown in his throat. 

Above him, he could hear the distinct sounds of footsteps, bouncing over the metal roof. Sirens were sounding through the train, and he could hear footsteps in the corridor outside his room, as well. 

Clara burst in through the door suddenly, her face entirely shadowed and her hair messy and wild around her head. Behind her, Calypso also poured in through the door, a pink furry eye mask sitting on her forehead, and thin, brown hair in a hairnet. 

Adrenaline shot through Greg’s veins, at the panicked look on the two women’s faces. 

Sliding off the bed, Greg pulled John off with him, and pushed him to get down onto the floor. 

Whoever was here was probably here for him. 

All Greg could think was that it was Magnussen. Magnussen, who’d grown sick of his antics, who’d grown sick of _him, _come in the dead of night to take him away, whether to be tortured or shot, he wasn’t sure. 

‘Get behind me!’ Greg snapped, his voice croaky. 

Both women darted behind him, Clara grabbing hold of John and kneeling next to him on the ground, her worried face dim in the moonlight that filtered in through the window. 

Outside, Greg could see the flashing of torches, the sounds of people moving and rattling around the train.

He would face this. He would stand for this. He would stand and face what was coming for him head on.

Reaching out, Greg grabbed the lamp from the ground, standing with his shoulders rolled back. 

For the first time in two weeks, his mind was clear and focused. Mycroft’s pendant sat on his chest, warm next to his heart. His eyes locked on the door, waiting, watching quietly. His mind was crystalline, sharp and edged with glass. 

His body felt flush with energy. 

The door was pushed open.


	15. Rescue

‘Sally.’ 

Mycroft’s smooth voice sounded behind her, just as she was serving out to Molly the last of the oats she’d cooked over the nearby fire. Looking up and grinning at Greg’s friend, Sally offered up her own bowl. 

‘Oats?’ 

Mycroft looked into the bowl, his forehead creasing, before looking back at her. A smile threatened at the corner of her mouth, which she rapidly pressed down before it burst into a full-on grin. 

‘I am fine, thank you,’ he said, his arms folding on his chest. ‘I would like to speak with you a moment. Privately.’ 

‘Course,’ said Sally, nodding her head, before getting up. ‘Maya, will you be alright with the others for a sec?’ 

‘Yeah, ‘course,’ nodded Maya, reaching out and taking her bowl, running a finger over the back of Sally’s hand as she did so. Sally spared her an affectionate smile, before following Mycroft off through the spread of low camping beds. The hangar had grown all the more cramped since all the refugees and soldiers had poured in from District Twelve. It was a madhouse… yet for some reason Sally couldn’t help but love it.

There were people always around her, people always smiling at her and helping her out with the kids. Other children were around to play with Alex, Charlotte and Sam as well, in a way they hadn’t really had before. 

Back in the district, in the little school they would go to, kids stuck to themselves, they didn’t talk to anyone. There was always the fear of being hurt by someone, or having your food stolen by some hungry urchin. You had to guard yourself, protect yourself. 

But here… here there wasn’t any of that. Yes, sometimes food got stolen, but there was enough to go around. People shared, people celebrated together, helped each other. There was as strange sort of camaraderie in this place, and an overwhelming sense of hope. For the first time in her life, Sally finally felt like she was actively doing something. 

She was helping to build the better world. A better world for Alex and Charlotte, Sam, Maya and Molly. 

Mycroft led her through the hangar, out onto the main floor of the Silo, where the hovercraft were being tested and repaired. He led her through towards the nearby elevators to the upper floors of the Silo. 

When they finally reached the fifth floor, he silently walked towards a small, unremarkable door down a hallway, a few other doors similar to it along the walls. The door slid open with a hiss, and he ushered her through quietly, before sliding through himself and letting the door close behind him. Inside, the room was sparse and spartan; a small dining table next to a window, clearly doubling as a desk from the piles and piles of paperwork and various data pads lying on top of it. 

There were also two lounges, facing one another, on the left side, and on the right side of the room were three doors.

‘Where are we?’ asked Sally, as Mycroft ushered her to take a seat at the table, before going around and taking a seat himself. Behind him, the bright window framed him, a view out onto the forest surrounding the Silo. Sally knew that they weren’t actually windows, that there weren’t any windows outside. 

But it was a nice feature, anyway. Made the place seem less like a trap. 

‘These are the quarters belonging to myself and Sherlock,’ Mycroft replied, tersely. ‘When we first moved here Sherlock ensured that there would be no bugs in place. Culverton cannot spy on us here.’ 

‘Is that something you’re worried about?’ asked Sally, nervous all of a sudden. She had taken measure of Culverton Smith, their supposed leader. She didn’t trust him. Not at all. 

‘Yes,’ murmured Mycroft, looking at her directly. His grey eyes bored straight through her, as if they were laying her soul bare. It was a strange sensation, something she hadn’t become quite accustomed to, even over their time spent together. ‘Culverton… has agreed to allow us to attempt an extraction of Gregory.’ 

‘Really?!’ Sally’s heart immediately jumped in her, chest, and she couldn’t help the smile that spread over her face. Greg was going to be helped, and she was excited. She was happy, finally, that Greg was going to be taken in by the Resistance. 

The Resistance had been sitting here, underground, this whole time. It was almost terrifying how much they had built up over the years, and yet for some reason stagnated. She didn’t really understand why. 

She had realised early on that Mycroft had been with them for a long time. He had known about this for a long time, and she knew why he hadn’t revealed it to Greg during the Games. But it did make her a little angry, knowing that they had been here this whole time, waiting and watching, and refusing to do anything about the suffering. 

But it was something she was working towards slowly becoming used to the idea of. 

Mycroft, however, did not look as pleased. He did have a small smile twitching around the corners of his mouth at the sight of her happiness, but his eyes were hard. There was something else. 

Sally held herself in her chair before she could jump up with joy. ‘So…’ she tried, ‘What’s the catch?’ 

Mycroft cleared his throat, and rubbed a hand over his face, clearly stalling before he would have to tell her. Something she wouldn’t like, then. ‘We have to take District Five first. And we only have a limited amount of time. We need to make a plan to take District Five and then immediately turn around and take Gregory’s train.’ 

‘What’s your plan, then?’ asked Sally, entirely confident that Mycroft had a plan. Mycroft looked up at her, surprised for a moment. She shrugged. ‘I know you’ve got one.’ 

‘I do,’ he nodded. ‘We have the personnel for it. We also have the weaponry and the transport to take District Five. Changing their hearts, however, may not be as easy.’ 

‘They are closer to the Capitol. They have a richer population. People more likely to be sympathetic towards the Capitol.’ 

‘Exactly,’ said Mycroft. ‘That is the issue.’ 

‘You want me to tell you how to change their minds?’ asked Sally, almost incredulous. ‘I don’t know. You’re the one who’s always making those speeches. You’re the one who people look up to. I don’t know anything, I’m just a farmer from District Ten.’ 

‘That is exactly why I am asking you,’ said Mycroft. ‘You know these people far better than I. I am the son of a jeweller from District One. I don’t really understand poverty, for I have never truly experienced it. It is perhaps my greatest flaw as a leader.’ 

Sally sat back in her chair, throwing one leg over the other. 

‘The poor in District Five do still outnumber the wealthy. District Five is responsible for electricity production. I need you to help me devise the best way to appeal to the people of District Five.’ 

Sally nodded her head. ‘I see.’ 

Mycroft was looking up at her, now, from under his long lashes, his eyes sad. Sally didn’t know how she could tell that, but she could. It was obvious to see he was upset about something. But at the same time, Sally didn’t really want to pry. 

‘The plan is that because District Five controls the electricity, we can shut it off. The Capitol of course has backup generators, but they won’t kick in until at least twenty minutes after the electricity from District Five runs out.’ Mycroft stood, turning around and touching a hand to the false window. It flashed blue, before fading into a large screen, onto which was projected a large map of what Sally assumed was District Five. 

‘There are power plants all over the District, however the main control board is here,’ Mycroft pointed to a large settlement, in the centre of which was a tall tower. ‘If I can get there with the Resistance soldiers, we can take it apart. The Capitol won’t have power until their backup generators kick in, but more importantly; Gregory’s train will have to halt.’ 

‘So the plan is for us to get into District Five, shut it down, and then get to Greg?’ asked Sally, frowning. 

Mycroft bowed his head. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll be leading the team that extracts Gregory,’ he said, softly. ‘I’ll be leading the rest of the militia into District Five.’ 

Sally was taken aback. Mycroft was looking at his feet, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his suit impeccable. For all intents and purposes, he looked entirely natural about the whole affair, if it wasn’t for his eyes, which Sally could tell were sad. And she couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to be the one to see Greg for the first time. 

The way Mycroft spoke of Greg — it was as if Greg occupied nearly his every waking thought. Sally had doubted, at first, whether he had care for Greg the way Greg cared for him; but seeing him there wasn’t a shred of doubt left in her mind. 

’Don’t… don’t you want to rescue Greg yourself?’ asked Sally, unsure. 

Mycroft let out a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before turning back to look at the screen, which had faded back to being a window. His profile was framed by the grey light pouring in from the overcast day, making his eyes look shadowed, and his nose prominent. It reminded her a little of the beak of an eagle. 

She remembered one in particular her father had pointed out to her when she was a girl; standing on the edge of a cliff, looking out over the ocean, waiting and watching for something. She hadn’t been sure what the eagle had been waiting for, but a moment later, on a silent signal, the eagle had dived from the cliff. 

Mycroft reminded her, for a moment, of that eagle in the instant before it dove. 

‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘I have to lead the militia. That is my duty as General.’ 

‘Fuck that,’ Sally said, standing, her hands on her hips. ‘Fuck duty.’ 

Mycroft turned to her, raising a single, well-formed eyebrow. ‘Sally, I am the general of the Resistance. I have to lead the militia into the District. This is going to be our first District where we are not entirely sure whether the people will be on our side. It’s not like District Twelve. 

‘The people of District Twelve were starving. They were already waiting for us. They knew we were coming and welcomed us with open arms. Not to mention that the Capitol undoubtedly knows that we are heading for District Five next. They will have increased protections there. Increased Peacekeeper presence. 

‘This is a battle,’ said Mycroft, his voice hard. ‘I am the general. I have to be there. I cannot put that aside in favour of a personal matter.’ 

Sally slammed her hand down on the table. ‘Think about Greg!’ she snapped. ‘Think about what he needs! He has been trapped there, with those _monsters,_ for weeks now. He _needs _you, Mycroft. Now quit being a shit about it!’ 

Mycroft had both eyebrows raised at her, now, his eyes pale and stark. 

‘Sally,’ he said, his voice calm and even, entirely opposing her somewhat loud, high-pitched voice. ‘I have to think about what is best for the militia, and the Resistance. I am their general.’

‘Mycroft, why aren’t you listening to me?’ Sally said, raising her hands in a pleading gesture. ‘Greg needs you to be there for him. And I know that you want to be there for him too.’ 

‘I do,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘But I want to do what Gregory would do.’ He sat back down, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on the table, his eyes focused and dark. ‘Whenever I have a conundrum such as this, I always ask myself what Gregory would do; were he in this situation. I know as well as you do that were Gregory in my situation, he would be there to lead the militia. Because that is my duty.’

Sally sat back in her chair, entirely unimpressed. Crossing her arms over her chest, she evaluated him. ‘You’re not Greg, Mycroft,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t try to do what he would do. You should try to do what _you _would do.’ 

‘This is my decision, Sally,’ he said, his voice filled with finality. He pushed himself up from the table, and walked over to the sliding door. It opened for him, and he stepped out, before turning to rest a hand on the doorframe. ‘I have sent the full instructions for you to the data pad Anthea gave you. If you need me, you can only call. I shall be departing with the militia to District Five in a matter of hours. You will do the same. You will be heading for the border between Districts Two and One. That is where you will extract Gregory.’ 

‘There’s another reason,’ said Sally, her voice soft. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me. There’s a reason you’re not letting yourself do this. I know you want to.’ 

Mycroft shook his head, before he turned and walked off down the corridor. The door slid shut behind him. 

‘That was enlightening,’ said a voice, high-pitched and soft. Sally turned to see that one of the three doors had been opened, and a small, young boy around John’s age was peering out. He had a round face, with soft cheeks and a pile of black curls on his head. However his eyes were perhaps his most striking feature; pale blue in colour and shifting under the light to a topaz sort of shade. They bored into Sally in almost the same way Mycroft’s did; baring her secrets for his eyes alone. 

It was disturbing to see it on such a small face. 

‘Sherlock,’ said Sally, standing and looking at Mycroft’s brother carefully. 

Sherlock stepped out, his nose twitching, as he fiddled with the hem of his pale blue dressing-gown absentmindedly. He didn’t seem to have the same control Mycroft did; where Mycroft walked with grace and an even tread, his shoulders straight and his command impeccable, Sherlock stepped with uneven strides, almost jerkily, his fingers fiddling with the edge of his dressing gown, his shoulders rolled inwards. 

‘What was enlightening?’ asked Sally, staring at him. 

Sherlock cast her a glance out of the corner of his eye that was almost a glare. He strolled past her, straight to the lounge, flopping down and tossing his feet up in a casual manner. Immediately, his hands came up, resting under his chin in a steepled position.

Sally had to resist the urge to snort. 

‘My brother,’ Sherlock replied, taking his sweet time. ‘Sentiment.’ 

The last word was scoffed, as Sherlock slid a lazy, multi-coloured eye over to gaze at her. Sighing, Sally sat down across from the younger boy, resting a hand over her face. 

‘So, tell me, then,’ she said, peeking out at Sherlock from between her fingers. 

‘My brother is a meddling old bastard,’ said Sherlock, poking out his tongue and letting out a loud raspberry. Sally had to resist the urge to snort, again. 

‘I don’t think that’s very fair,’ said Sally, ‘He’s not old, he’s not that meddling, and I wouldn’t know about his mother, but I’m fairly sure he’s not actually a bastard.’

Sherlock rolled one multicoloured eye at her. ‘He is not good with… emotions.’ The word sounded almost like a curse word rolling off his tongue. 

‘Like you are?’ snorted Sally, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock didn’t even deign that comment with an eye roll. 

‘He made a deal,’ said Sherlock, ‘A deal with the devil. Now he doesn’t think he’s good enough. It’s tedious.’ 

Sally leaned forwards. Finally, they were actually getting somewhere. 

‘What do you mean? How do you know that?’ 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, again. ‘Mycroft told me,’ he replied. ‘I’m bored.’ 

With that, Mycroft’s brother got up, and breezed out of the room, leaving Sally with even more questions than she started with. What did Sherlock mean, a deal with the devil? What devil?

The only devil she could think of was Magnussen — Mycroft couldn’t’ve made a deal with _Magnussen, _could he? 

Suddenly, Sally wasn’t so sure. 

***

She had taken a wrong turn. She knew it, as soon as she walked through the massive sliding doors. It was an open room, wide and airy, yet somehow also dark, dingy and damp. People were laid out on stretchers and camp-beds, curtains drawn around them, as nurses hurried about. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Sally spotted Molly; she was holding a clipboard and following a taller woman wearing a white coat. 

‘Molls!’ 

Immediately, the brown-haired girl turned and when she saw Sally, a smile lit up her face. ‘Sal!’ 

Molly leant forwards and tapped the taller woman on the shoulder, saying something to her quietly before darting across the room to where Sally was standing. ‘Are you alright?’ 

‘I’m fine,’ replied Sally. ‘Is this the medical bay?’ 

‘Yeah,’ nodded Molly, looking around. 

‘There’s so many people here,’ said Sally, her voice quiet. 

Molly hummed, looking down at her feet. ‘A lot of the refugees from Twelve were malnourished, and we’ve had a break out of cholera because the sewage system in Twelve was broken down and mismanaged.’ 

‘That’s awful,’ breathed Sally. Molly shook her head. 

‘It makes you really think about how lucky we were,’ she murmured. ‘We had septic tanks, and water collectors. They all had to rely on open sewers and whatever rainwater dripped through their roofs.’ 

Sally bit her tongue. She hadn’t realised. 

She’d never known anyone from District Twelve. She’d certainly never been there. Everything everyone in the other Districts knew about one another was the glimpses they caught in the Games coverage, or on the minimal news. 

That was probably by design. Designed to seed discord between the Districts, in a time that they needed to be united. They needed to be brought together by something. 

All the Districts had animosity towards one another. She knew that. It was plain as day to see. Those from Twelve despised those from One; simply because the people from District One had more. They were luckier. 

But Sally knew what would bring them all together. Greg. 

She had seen in her time here that Greg was a symbol of something. He represented everything the people wanted to be. She had to bite her pride. Mycroft wasn’t going to do it, no matter how much she tried to argue with him. Mycroft had a sense of duty. She could respect that. But there was something else. Something he wasn’t telling her. 

She knew he’d only known her a couple of weeks, but she’d hoped it’d be enough for him to trust her. She didn’t like the fact that she was wrong. On some level she knew Mycroft trusted her. He trusted her just enough. But Mycroft was like an onion; peel away one layer and there’s just another waiting there for her to find, to hit up against like a brick wall. 

‘It’s a shame,’ murmured Molly, ‘We aren’t able to save as many as we thought we could save.’ 

‘People are dying?’ asked Sally, her voice as soft as she could make it. Molly looked down at her feet, her eyes sad. 

‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘Of course people are dying. That’s what happens in a hospital. We thought we’d be able to save more. People are dying who we thought we might be able to save.’ 

Sally sighed. ‘It’s morale. They need more hope than we can give right now.’ 

‘Hope?’ asked Molly, looking at Sally, her ponytail flicking. ‘Well, I suppose they could be dying of depression. But I would have thought this place is full of hope. Everyone here is working to build a better future.’ 

Sally looked away, around the medical bay, at all the people coughing, laying on stretchers. She saw one woman in the corner, a young-looking woman, yet she was walking like an old crone, a bandage wrapped around her head and a cane held in one shaking, thin hand. 

‘It’s not enough,’ she said.

***

‘Are you in position?’ a low voice queried in her ear. 

‘Yes,’ replied Sally, her voice soft in her helmet. The night was dark, cold, and the moon shining through the foliage around the tracks. The tracks themselves reflected the moonlight back into her eyes, surprisingly bright. 

Inside her helmet, various signs and signals were flashing, showing her where the train was, how far it was away from her current position, how soon it would be until the train passed her. 

Above her in the trees, the team picked by Mycroft to go with her waited, their guns trained on the track. She herself was waiting for Mycroft’s signal, even as the train was getting closer and closer. It was barely a kilometre from them, a distance it could cover in the space of two minutes. It would be here soon. 

In her hands rested her own gun, a heavy-duty thing of black metal and warm, humming barrel. It was ridiculously intuitive; she barely needed to know how to fire it. 

Across the other side of the track, she saw the flash of the moon on another barrel similar to her own. Ten soldiers waited her orders, either side of the tracks. She could hear her heart beating in her ears — tense like the beating of a drum. 

‘Mycroft?’ Sally hissed into her helmet. A flashing light popped up in the corner of her visor. 

‘Sally,’ said Mycroft’s voice. ‘I have finished. We are in front of the control panel.’ 

‘Good,’ replied Sally, looking over to see that the train headlights were pouring down the track now, lighting up the silver of the rails like molten metal. ‘The train’s here.’ 

‘I’m shutting off the power in five.’ 

Sally pulled her gun closer to her chest, waiting, ready for the signal. The train was getting closer — she could hear it pulling along the tracks. The tracks themselves were humming, and she thought she could even hear the low spark of electricity, even over the grinding of metal against metal. 

Clack-clack, clack-clack, then…. 

The headlights of the train flashed once, then stopped. The humming of the tracks also halted, leaving nothing but the screeching of the wheels on the tracks. The train was slowing down, a dark mass just a hundred metres from their position. Sally couldn’t see through the front window of the train; she couldn’t tell how the drivers were reacting. But she could tell that the train, with its power cut, was now slowly drifting along the tracks, heading to a stop right in front of them. 

A single car drifted past her, before the train ground to a halt, jolting on the tracks. 

‘Now!’ snapped Sally, ‘Go, go, go!’ 

Immediately, personnel dropped from the tree-tops, straight across and down onto the roof of the train. Running along, their forms outlined by moonlight, they made for the nearest roof hatches to get inside the train. 

Sally headed straight for the joiner between the carriages. The train was only connected by a small platform, and an accordion-like piece. It was easy enough for her to rip the knife from her side, and tear straight through, jumping up onto the platform. The door in front of her was sealed, a single small window looking into a dark hallway. She could see the shadowy shapes of Peacekeepers and guards, darting up and down the carriage like ants in a frenzy.

Behind her, three other soldiers had hopped up onto the carriage, and were standing behind her, helping lift up a thick, black, metal post to use as a battering ram and get inside. Sally stepped aside. 

‘One, two, _three!’ _

With a great heave and grunt, the soldiers swung the battering ram forwards. The thin metal buckled, and the door swung open on its small hinges, opening up the corridor. 

Immediately, Sally pushed past and into the carriage, holding up her gun. Other soldiers dropped through the hatch in the roof, landing on the floor and holding up their weapons. 

‘Drop your weapons!’ she snapped out, the visor filtering her voice through her helmet. ‘Do it now!’ 

Clearly outnumbered, the Peacekeepers in white slowly bent, placing their small weapons on the ground. Their masks entirely covered their faces — blank and inexpressive. Yet Sally felt a thrum of victory through her bones; they were going to get to Greg. 

She had to find him first, though. 

Dropping her own weapon to her side, she signalled to the others. ‘Round them up. Get them out into the back of the train, and wait for the General’s orders.’ 

One saluted, while the others began taking the Peacekeepers and twisting arms behind backs, marching past her in the small corridor. 

‘We’re in,’ Sally said, into her helmet. ‘I don’t know where Greg is, though. I’m going to find him.’

‘Alright,’ said Mycroft, his voice smooth and expressionless. Sally wished she could see his face, for a moment. 

Pushing the thought aside, she stepped through the train, pushing doors open as she went. 

The first room she came across was a little messy — cloud-like wigs scattered on the bed, silk clothes on the floor. Clearly someone from the Capitol. Make-up was liberally sprinkled on a nearby table, as she quietly poked through, looking for any clues. 

The only hint she got was a small, silver pin sitting on the bedside table, shaped like the Resistance symbol; the sword piercing through the circular pin. ‘Not here,’ she said. ‘But I did find this silver pin, I think it might be that stylist Greg had. Or the host.’ 

‘Keep moving,’ Mycroft snapped, his voice slightly tense. It was the only clue that she got that he was as nervous as she was about this. What if it had been a ruse? What if Magnussen knew they were coming?

What if he had managed to smuggle Greg away, somehow?

Shaking her head, Sally pushed out of the room, moving on to the next door. She pushed it open with one hand, her other hand holding up her weapon. Overhead, she could hear the low hum of the hovercraft uncloaking and waiting for them. 

‘You sent us backup?’ she asked, into her helmet. 

Mycroft sighed. ‘A simple retinue,’ he replied. ‘A few extra soldiers, and a full medical team.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Sally. ‘I don’t think anyone was seriously hurt. They didn’t know we were coming. There’s practically no one on the train.’ 

‘That is what I am worried about,’ said Mycroft. ‘It’s suspiciously empty.’ 

‘Maybe Magnussen didn’t see this coming.’ 

‘Perhaps,’ murmured Mycroft. He sounded doubtful. 

‘Nothing here,’ murmured Sally, looking into yet another empty room. This one was more spartan than the last one; with far fewer outfits strewn about. Stroking a hand over the bedding, however, she could tell that there had been someone here, and fairly recently as well. 

Shaking her head again, Sally pushed out of the room, only to be confronted by a man. 

‘Dimmock!’ Sally gasped out, from inside the helmet. 

‘I don’t know who you are,’ snapped Dimmock, holding a silver knife in one hand, and in the other hand a glass bottle entirely empty of liquid. 

‘I’m with the Resistance!’ Sally bit out, ‘Dimmock, it’s me, it’s Sally!’ 

‘What?’ asked Dimmock, his face contorting. ‘Why are you, what are you doing?’ 

‘Saving your arses,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Get out of my way. Go back that way, tell them who you are. They’ll take you up to the hover craft. We have to get out of here.’ 

Dimmock shook his head, seemingly unable to move. Sighing in disgust, Sally grabbed his arm and pulled him past her, pushing him to where two soldiers in black were standing beneath the hatch, a beam of light pouring down from the hovercraft above. ‘That way, idiot,’ she snapped out. Dimmock slowly began to meander down. 

Sally didn’t have any more time to waste on him. 

‘How much longer do I have?’ she asked into the helmet. ‘Mycroft!’ 

‘Five minutes,’ he replied. ‘You have to get out of there. Electricity has already gone back up in the Capitol. It won’t be long before District One and Two have it.’ 

‘Fine,’ Sally replied, moving more quickly now. There was only one door left — Greg had to be behind it. 

Carefully she walked past where Dimmock had been standing, and towards the end of the carriage, where one final door was waiting. Her heart was beating in her throat, blood rushing in her ears. This had to be it. He had to be behind this door. 

She didn’t know what she was going to do if he wasn’t. She didn’t know how she could tell Mycroft. 

And the nerve-wracking idea of seeing Greg again — it was almost nauseating. She didn’t know what he would think of the decisions she’d made, of everything she’d done. She didn’t know what _he _would be like. The last time she had seen him, he’d been up on the tele screen, forcing out words that bit into her soul. Words accusing her of being a terrorist. 

It had surprised her how much that had hurt, even though she knew he couldn’t have meant it. 

‘Sally,’ said Mycroft, his voice soft in her ear. ‘Are you almost there? Have you found him? You only have three minutes left.’ 

That reminder pounded in her ears. She only had a little longer before the train would start up again, and then they would be rushing away, and there was no chance of getting Greg out, let alone John. 

Steeling herself by sucking in a breath though her nose, Sally pushed open the door, holding a hand across her body, barely able to look. 

The sight that greeted her nearly made her weep. 

Greg was standing in the front, holding out a broken lamp, his eyes narrow and hard in the darkness. He wore a ratty old shirt, and a pair of linen pants, his feet spread and waiting for her. His hair shone silver in the moonlight pouring in through the window. 

In her ear, Sally heard Mycroft’s soft intake of breath. 

Greg himself was standing in front of three smaller forms, hunched on the floor. One was wearing what looked like a hot pink silk dressing gown, a sleeping mask on her forehead. She was clutching at a blond-haired boy that could only be John, and beside her was another young woman with dark eyes and hair and delicate, small features. 

‘Who are you?!’ asked Greg, his voice hard, his eyes narrow. ‘Stay back!’ 

‘Greg,’ Sally rasped out, her throat filling and her eyes burning with tears. ‘Greg, it’s me!’ 

In her ear, she could hear Mycroft’s breathing; he was leaning forwards and looking through the cameras in her visor, taking in the sight of Greg no doubt. She tried to step forwards, raising her hands to show they weren’t holding her weapon any more. 

‘I said stay back!’ Greg bit out. 

Sally quickly realised Greg couldn’t tell who it was because of her helmet. Sending a silent mental apology to Mycroft, she ripped the helmet off her head, letting her curly hair free. 

Greg’s face melted, and she could see tears welling in the corners of his brown eyes. 

‘Sally?’ he whispered, his voice tremulous.

‘Yeah,’ she murmured, her voice just as shaky. ‘Yeah, Greg, it’s me, it’s me.’ 

Suddenly, Greg shook his head, and held out the lamp even more. ‘No, how do I know you’re not some trick Magnussen’s playing on me! How do I know you’re not just wearing Sally’s face?’ 

‘Greg!’ Sally exclaimed, reaching out for her best friend. Greg was still shaking his head, his eyes watering. ‘Greg, I promise, it’s me. Look!’ 

She held out her hand, pulling off her glove with her other hand. ‘I promise. You remember that time when we were kids? You remember when my dad died and I was so, so miserable and I wasn’t coping with the kids and then you helped me out? You gave me some beef, and showed me how to cook it properly on the fire? You remember that I burnt myself, so badly it left a scar?

‘Look!’ she pointed with her finger to where the scar was on her left hand. ‘Look, it’s there — something no-one else could know about!’ 

Greg bit his lip, his eyes still watering, wide in the darkness. But his arms were loosening, lowering the lamp slowly. 

Behind him, the two women were looking between her and Greg cautiously. But between them, John had a smile, spreading on his face. It was the only warning she got when John suddenly burst onto his feet and sprinted at her, wrapping his arms around her middle. 

Sally had a laugh forced out of her, a wet laugh from her chest, as John squeezed her as hard as he could. Gently, she rubbed a hand on his back. 

‘Sally,’ John’s tiny, soft voice whispered. ’S’it you?’ 

‘Yeah,’ she whispered. ‘Yeah, it’s me. I’m here to take you guys away. Back to the Resistance. It’s safe there.’ 

She looked up at Greg. ‘Mycroft… he’s waiting for you Greg.’ 

Greg now had tears rolling down his cheeks, as he walked closer, the lamp dropping to the floor with a thud. He reached out a hand to her, and Sally met him halfway with her own palm, pressing them together. She could see he was shaking, his whole frame shivering like a leaf. 

‘Greg,’ she whispered. ‘It’s good to see you. I’m so, so sorry.’ 

‘Nothing to be sorry for, Sal,’ he replied, reaching out and folding her into a hug. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’ 


	16. Silo

Greg could hardly believe what had happened over the last few hours of his life. Only a few hours ago he had been lying, staring at the ceiling, the future spanning out of him, bleak and bare. He knew Magnussen wouldn’t ever let him go back to District Ten. The most he could hope for was being put up in the Capitol, rolled out for every single event until the people grew tired of him and he was murdered. 

Worst case scenario, he was murdered in District One. 

That had seemed the most likely. 

Now, here he was, clutching Sally’s hand in his left, and John’s in his right, as the hovercraft floated over the forest, far away from the train, and far away from the interminable train ride. 

Turning, Greg saw that Sally was looking at him. It was as if she couldn’t take her eyes off his face. Greg was almost thankful for it — it was so real and raw that he knew he couldn’t possibly be dreaming. Sally’s hand, warm and heavy in his own, squeezing so tightly he knew his knuckles had to be turning white. 

Across from them, Calypso, Clara and Dimmock were sitting. Dimmock was looking into a crystal decanter, a sad expression crossing his face. Meanwhile Calypso and Clara both looked a little shell-shocked. Calypso most of all, her sleeping mask hanging from just one ear now, and her hair nest-like on her head. Her silk dressing gown hung off one shoulder, grease and dirt staining the hem. 

Beside him, John was smiling, bouncing in his chair and swinging his feet back and forth. 

Greg knew he was smiling, as well, as with every metre further away they flew from the train, a massive weight lifted from his shoulders. He felt like he was sitting higher in his chair, his back straighter, more awake than he’d been in days. He wasn’t cold, either, despite the chilly weather and the fact he wasn’t wearing much more than a loose, ratty shirt from the District and a pair of soft, thin pants. 

‘How did you find me?’ asked Greg, looking back at Sally. She had a smile spreading her face, as she leaned in and pressed her shoulder against his own on the bench they were strapped to. 

‘Mycroft,’ she replied, shrugging and grinning. ‘He’s a genius. He came up with this whole plan.’ 

Greg smiled, looking down at his lap, the pendant Mycroft had given him resting on his chest. ‘He is,’ Greg murmured. Sally nudged him in the shoulder again. ‘So where is he?’ 

‘District Five,’ said Sally. ‘He’s overseeing the whole thing. District Five is where the power plants are, see? He came up with the plan to disable the power to the tracks, while I extracted you.’ 

‘Oh,’ murmured Greg. ‘I wish he’d come himself.’ 

‘So does he,’ smiled Sally. ‘I promise.’ 

There was something tight around the corners of her eyes, for some reason. Greg couldn’t quite make it out, and he was too dizzyingly high on everything to possibly comprehend it right now. Sally was here, they weren’t on the train anymore, they were going to join the Resistance…

And Mycroft was here. Mycroft was waiting for him, just waiting for him to come back, and Greg couldn’t think of anything that made him more excited. Just the thought of seeing his face again was almost overwhelming. He knew an almost idiotic smile was spreading over his face. 

Yet there was also fear, running underneath the elation. 

Fear that Mycroft wouldn’t know who he was. Fear Mycroft wouldn’t know that Greg was lying about the terrorism, about his belief that Mycroft was dead. It burned inside him, worrying him, making him fear that he wasn’t good enough. He hadn’t even been good enough to get himself out of the situation he’d been in. 

And then there was the anger. Anger that Mycroft hadn’t thought to trust him with the knowledge of his survival. Anger that Mycroft hadn’t brought him into the fold sooner. 

Everything was bursting inside his chest, everything he was feeling — it was almost too much. And he had to deal with all that shit before he got back to the base, before Mycroft would want to talk to him. 

Breathing out, Greg tried to focus on the present. Sally, pressing their shoulders together next to him. John looking around the hovercraft with a happy smile plastered over his face. His own feeling of immense, intense relief. 

‘I’m so glad you guys made it,’ Greg murmured, leaning over towards Sally. ‘I was so afraid that you’d be caught by the Capitol.’ 

Sally let out a mock gasp, a grin splitting her face, and creasing her eyes. ‘Your faith in me,’ she replied, pressing a hand to her chest. Greg grinned back at her, nudging her back teasingly, just as hard as she’d pushed him. 

Waving her hand dismissively a moment later, her usual confidence taking back over her frame, she let out a grunt. ‘Nah,’ she said, ‘Course we made it. Mycroft picked us up the next day. We weren’t in any danger.

‘You saw to that.’ Her voice turned low, and dark. 

Greg sighed, leaned back, and untangled their fingers, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘I had to,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t have gotten away otherwise.’ 

‘You can’t know that, Greg,’ said Sally. ‘You can’t know that you wouldn’t have gotten away as well.’ 

‘I wasn’t ready yet, Sal,’ said Greg. ‘And I had to protect you. It was the right thing to do.’

‘Yeah,’ murmured Sally. ‘I know, you did it cause you wanted to help me. But I just… I wish it didn’t have to happen like that. I wish you hadn’t ended up in the Capitol.’

‘It was fine,’ said Greg. ‘And anyway, Magnussen wouldn’t have stopped until he found me. Him taking me right away meant he didn’t look for you.’

Sally shrugged. ‘Who knows what would have happened,’ she said. ‘It’s useless to try and guess. It doesn’t get us anywhere. I just wish you hadn’t been in that situation. It really hurt him, ya know?’ 

‘Hurt who?’ Greg asked, sitting up sharply, and looking at her with a glare. 

‘Mycroft,’ Sally shrugged, again, her eyes wide and sad. ‘I was there with him for the first transmission. The one where you said you were sure he was dead. And that the Resistance were terrorists.’ 

‘I didn’t mean it,’ scoffed Greg, internally panicking. He could see Mycroft in his mind’s eye, those slate grey eyes wide and worried, forehead creasing, auburn hair messy. 

He knew he was insecure about the whole thing. Worried Mycroft wouldn’t believe him when he said he hadn’t meant it. But Mycroft had to believe him. He just had to.

The only comfort Greg had that Mycroft believed that Greg was lying was the pendant, sitting on his chest. 

He had to admit, it was a strange sensation; only a few hours ago he had worried that he hadn’t been convincing enough. He’d been worried that he was going to be killed because he just wasn’t a good enough liar. How karmic it was that he was now worried he had been too good of a liar. 

‘You didn’t believe me,’ murmured Greg, leaning his head back against the thrumming metal of the hovercraft. ‘Right? You know I was lying. I know that Mycroft is alive. He sent me a pendant while I was in the Capitol! And you know that I know the Resistance isn’t a terrorist group? You’re helping people. I know you’re helping people. I know you and Mycroft and the Resistance; you are the best hope for the future.’ 

Sally bowed her head. ‘I believe you, Greg. I knew you were lying. I convinced Mycroft you were lying.

‘Doesn’t change the fact that it was hard to hear that. I mean… I don’t know.’ Sally sighed, throwing up her hands. ‘You used to say all the time that we should just be happy with what we had. That we should take it lying down ‘cause we couldn’t do anything about it. It used to make me so mad — you know that.’ 

‘I don’t think that anymore,’ Greg said, leaning forwards and looking at the ground, his eyes dark and narrowed. The red-hot rage, grief and sadness that had been boiling under his skin for the last few months; ever since the Games ended with Mycroft’s death, the brutality in District Eleven — everything that Magnussen had tried to do to him… Of course he didn’t think that any more. 

‘There are people dying in their thousands, every day,’ he murmured. ‘There are little kids forced into an Arena like mine every year just to die at the hands of a psychotic killer like Moriarty or Irene. There are Victors who suffer every day with the guilt of the crimes they have committed, the reality of knowing they’re nothing more than pretty playthings in the Capitol’s dollhouse. There are people in all the Districts who are born as slaves, have lived as slaves all their lives and will die as slaves if I don’t… if we don’t do something.’ 

‘Good,’ murmured Sally. ‘Thank you, Greg. I know… I know it’s hard for you.’ 

‘It’s not,’ replied Greg, his shoulders tensing. ‘Not anymore. I want so badly to build a better world. For John, and Alex, and Lottie… for everyone. For all those kids who went into those Arenas and didn’t come back out.’ 

Sally bowed her head. 

‘I can’t… I can’t forget to be merciful, though. I can’t forget that… we can’t be him, Sal. We just can’t.’ 

‘Okay,’ whispered Sally. ‘I know. That’s what Mycroft’s been fighting for, all this time.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

Sally let out a soft sigh, her shoulders tensing in another shrug. ‘There’s… problems… in the Resistance. Factions, in-fighting, all that. Mycroft told me that a house divided can’t stand, or something like that. It’s not looking good.

‘It’s one of the reasons we got you out,’ she said. ‘He needed something to unite everyone. He needed you to unite everyone. You can do that.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg said, bitterly, ‘As the Silver Knight.’

‘Exactly!’

Greg shook his head. ‘I… I’m not just the Silver Knight, Sal. And I’m not all that I’m supposed to be. I’m not all I’m cracked up to be.’ 

‘Yes, you are,’ said Sally, rubbing a hand over Greg’s shoulder. ‘You can do this. I know you can. I _know _you, Greg. I know you’re every bit the sentimental, noble, self-sacrificing _idiot_ they want you to be.’ 

Greg’s shoulders sunk. 

‘Sal, I…’ 

A voice suddenly came over the speakers. ‘We’re coming in for a landing at the Silo. Welcome home, Silver Knight.’ 

Sally nudged Greg in the shoulder, and pointed out the front windows of the hovercraft, to where they now seemed to be sinking down a massive, concrete hole in the earth. Around the rim were trees and earth; he could even see a small pond glistening in the sunlight. 

They sunk further into the concrete, the trees disappearing over the rim. As they got lower and lower, Greg saw that massive, glass pipes were running along the walls of the massive concrete tube; people who looked like ants scurrying about inside. Many of them were dressed like Sally; all in black outfits that looked almost like Peacekeeper armour. Others were dressed in plain tunics in various shades of grey, women and men all in the same outfits. 

On the wall of the concrete tube, as they sank lower, Greg could see the symbol of the Silver Knight, repeated over and over in black ink. The symbol of the Resistance, he guessed it was now. 

Then, with a gentle thump, the hovercraft landed on some sort of floor at the bottom of the massive concrete tube. At the end of the hovercraft, a ramp opened up, falling down from the top to form a walkway off. 

Beside him, he heard a click as Sally undid her buckled belt, and got up from her seat, before offering him a hand with a grin. Numbly, Greg undid his own belt, before accepting her hand up, and then pulling off John’s belt for him. John had actually managed to fall asleep, his small blond head resting on one shoulder. 

Greg plucked his limp body out of the chair, lifting John onto his hip like a sack of potatoes. Then, he followed Sally out, the burning of the cold metal then concrete on his feet reminding him he was not wearing shoes. 

‘Clara?’ Greg asked, turning to see his stylist had also gotten up, and was helping Calypso to her feet. Calypso herself looked a little more than shell-shocked now, while Dimmock seemed rooted to his seat, his glass decanter on the floor next to him, his own head on his shoulder, and a line of drool coming from the corner of his mouth. 

‘Coming, Greg,’ replied Clara, a small smile crossing her features as she walked down the ramp beside him. 

Together they took in the sight of the Resistance’s base. It was an astonishing thing, really; soldiers marching about in their black armour, holding large weapons against their chests. They were moving about in columns and platoons, their faces covered by expressionless black helmets. Up ahead, Sally was looking back at them questioningly, but Greg knew he just needed a moment to look around before he could contemplate following after her. 

Looking up, he could see that they were at the bottom of the concrete tube. At the top, the hatch had clearly closed, leaving them in darkness, while the glass pipes that wound around the tube were lit up in blue light, shadowy people moving inside them like fish in a bowl. Around them, scattered over the circular base of the tube were other hovercraft in various states of repair, in various shapes and sizes. 

Around the circular area at the bottom there were also massive hangar doors lining the walls. Some were open, showing various vehicles and stockpiled crates; Greg didn’t know what could be inside. Others were closed, or only cracked open slightly so Greg could only see a sliver of what was inside. 

‘Greg!’ Sally called out, gesturing to him. ‘We gotta go this way!’ 

Speechlessly, Greg followed after Sally, motioning for both Calypso and Clara to stay by his side. Neither had said much the whole time — Greg guessed they were both as dumbstruck as he was by their sudden change of situation.

Greg could really feel the most for Calypso — she was a true Capitol girl. He couldn’t imagine what this was like for her. Where for him it almost felt a little like coming home, for her it must feel entirely foreign. They were surrounded by people who were clearly judging her attire, her looks and the way she carried herself, people were also clearly wary of her — she was so clearly of the Capitol. 

Calypso herself was looking around warily, as if she was in extreme danger, as if she was waiting for someone to spring out and try to kill her. The soldiers that walked past were entirely passive about her, but Greg would have to be blind to not see the way the unmasked people were looking at her. The tunic-wearers with clear curiosity, even a little animosity — but the people Greg guessed were refugees fleeing their Districts were looking at her with outright hostility, even hatred. 

And Greg found he could relate to that. He could relate to being in a place where he was certain people were out to get him. 

Falling a little behind Clara, Greg let himself fall into step beside Calypso. With his empty hand, he reached out and took her slim one, her long red nails scraping over his palm. She looked at him, gratefully, her eyeliner smeared around her eyes from sleep. 

‘It’ll be okay,’ said Greg. ‘You’re with me. I’m not gonna let them hurt you, Calypso.’ 

Calypso smiled, a small thing twisting her pale lips just slightly. It was enough for now. 

Greg squeezed her hand, then encouraged her to pick up the pace, following after Sally at a faster step. 

Up ahead, Sally was pushing through one of the slightly cracked hangar doors. Following her, Greg pushed into the hangar and was greeted with perhaps one of the most astonishing things he’d ever seen before. 

Camper beds were spread everywhere, all higgledy-piggledy, with no organisation. People were dozing on top of them under piles of blankets, whilst others sat around small fires burning in metal bins. The smell of cooking wafted over him, and he saw some others were roasting meats or veggies or even fruits over the fires. 

Meanwhile, children were running about, squealing and laughing in delight, playing games with small balls or bits and pieces they had clearly picked up around the base. One girl was even seated on her father’s lap, as he read her a book in a low voice, a smile spread over his face. 

Greg felt a matching smile widening over his own features at the sight of so many happy people. Sally was clearly enjoying his reaction, grinning as he looked around with wide eyes. 

‘All these people are from the Districts,’ she said. ‘We’ve just had to open up another hangar for people as well because there’s so many people pouring in. A lot of them are soldiers, or are using their skills to help out the Resistance. We’re growing by the day, Greg, it’s amazing!’ 

Her eyes were wide with wonder, her hands clasped in excitement. Greg couldn’t help but grin back at her, but he knew his grin was strained. A sudden exhaustion had overtaken him, weighing down his bones, as for the first time in such a long time, he felt safe. He didn’t feel like someone was peering over his shoulder, watching his every move. He didn’t feel like he needed to be on constant high alert, waiting for a very real threat. 

He wanted to lie down and go to sleep. Preferably next to Mycroft, if he could manage it. 

That was a simple thought. 

Without all the chaos and emotion associated with it, Greg could just imagine lying in a bed next to Mycroft the way he’d dreamed about for months. He could imagine falling asleep with his cheek pressed to Mycroft’s chest, hearing his heat beat. It was astonishing how much that thought warmed his bones, licked hot fingers up his spine, made his eyelids feel heavy. 

‘Have you got a place to sleep, Sal?’ asked Greg, smiling at her. ‘I think John needs a nap. So do I.’ 

‘Me too,’ yawned Clara. ‘I reckon I haven’t slept well in ages. Now we’re here… I dunno.’

‘It feels like we can sleep easier,’ murmured Greg. Clara nodded, smiling a soft smile, her eyelids drooping. 

‘Of course!’ Sally said, her voice excited. ‘Of course, come with me!’ 

She turned on one heel, bouncing off through the maze of beds and people with a spring in her step. She was smiling and laughing, greeting people as she went. It was a nice thought; that so many people knew her here, and were comfortable around her. There was a sense of warmth and community swamping Greg, as he saw parents caring for children who weren’t even their own, families giving food to other families who didn’t have enough, children skipping and dancing around in big groups, or huddling under blankets and snoozing in the early hours of the morning. 

Slowly, though, people were looking up at the new strangers in their area, and Greg knew that they were slowly realising who he was. He could see them staring, whispering, and all he wanted to do was reach out, smile, and say hello. He wanted to meet all these people who had fled their Districts, who were happy laughing and playing, smiling and running around. 

Then, a small child ran out into his path, bumping into his legs, clearly running away from a game of tag. Greg nearly tripped, but righted himself just in time to reach out with a hand and make sure the young boy didn’t fall over. ‘Whoa, easy there,’ Greg grinned, holding out a hand to the dark-haired child. ‘Are you alright?’ 

The boy was looking up at him with wide eyes, his mouth open in a gasp, his hands clutched in the hem of his ratty shirt. Wide green eyes stared at his face, darting between his hair, John’s limp, snoozing form in Greg’s arms, his clothes… 

‘You’re the Silver Knight!’ exclaimed the boy, his voice high-pitched and excited. Sally was looking back at him, her eyes wide and her smile encouraging. 

Greg nodded. ‘I am,’ he said, making a sudden decision. ‘That’s me.’

‘Wow,’ whispered the boy. 

Holding out his hand formally, Greg grinned. ‘Nice to meet you.’ 

With even wider green eyes, the young boy took his hand and shook it a couple of times. ‘Nice… nice to meet you too…’ he stammered out, before darting off, his cheeks bright red. Greg smiled after him, watching as he ran back to his friends, gathering in a big group and whispering together, their game forgotten. 

Shaking his head, Greg moved after Sally and Clara, Calypso following after him, her eyes on the floor. His interaction with the little boy seemed to encourage the others a little more — they reached out to him, shaking his hand, touching his leg, his hip, his shoulder. 

It was a suddenly astonishing feeling; he found himself in the middle of a massive group of people all reaching out to touch his shoulders, his arms, his legs, his hands. It was like in the Capitol, but Greg wasn’t uncomfortable. He wanted to help these people any way he could, because they were just like him. 

In the Capitol, the only reason the people wanted to touch him was the novelty. He was a novelty, and they all wanted something they could brag about to their friends — they had touched him with their bare hands. But here, here it was a gesture of comfort. It was welcoming, them reaching out to him, calling his name, calling him the Silver Knight. He tried to take as many hands as he could, smile as wide as he could, as he moved through the hangar. People were coming in from all sides, but it wasn’t suffocating. 

For the first time in his life, Greg felt at home. He felt like he was really helping people, by being there, smiling for them, getting them to smile and laugh along with him. 

He waved and smiled at the people who couldn’t get close to him, not close enough for him to shake hands with or to touch. People were all smiling and laughing, talking about him, talking with him, meeting people they hadn’t met before. People were sharing food around him, offering food which he respectfully declined. Everyone was happy, grinning, a sense of joy and hope swamping, washing over him like a tide. 

It rushed through his blood, sending adrenaline surging down his spine and his legs. The Capitol suddenly seemed a thousand miles away. 

It was slow going, but eventually they managed to make it through the crowd to a corner. Sally was there in the middle of a small circle of beds. A small fire was burning in a large metal barrel in a corner, and another small tent had been set up for a little privacy. Blankets and pillows were piled all over the low camper beds; there were four however that were neatly made, set up and ready for new people. 

Greg’s heart warmed at the sight. 

‘Alex, Charlotte, Sam, Molly, Maya,’ called Sally, tapping the outside of the small tent, and pushing at the mounds of blankets on the beds. 

One head poked up out of the covers, a head Greg recognised as Molly’s. Her hair was a wild mess around her head, and she looked up blearily from her blankets at Sally, a complaint already forming on her lips. 

‘Molls!’ Greg called, smiling, before she could say anything.

Immediately, Molly sat more upright in her bed, rubbing her eyes as if she could barely believe what she was seeing, before she let out a loud scream. ‘Greg!’ she screamed, excited, rolling out of her bed gracelessly before jumping over the circle. Laughing, Greg wrapped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing once and pressing a kiss to her cheek, before holding her at arms’ length. 

‘It’s good to see you, Molls,’ he murmured, tapping her cheeks affectionately. ‘Alright?’ 

‘Better now,’ she said, equally softly. 

Her scream had awoken John, who was wriggling now in his arm, a yawn bursting from his lips. ‘Molly!’ said John, his voice excited.

Around them, everyone else was slowly rolling out of bed, excitedly coming over and greeting Greg. Greg let John down, to stand beside him, as their friends swamped around them. He kept an arm around John’s shoulders, even as Maya flung her arms around his neck, and Alex crashed into his side. 

Warmth suffused through Greg like sunlight after a rainy day, and he felt at peace. 

***

After all the reunions were over with, but everyone was still sucking to his side like glue, Greg tried to get his bearings. Everyone was here, thank whatever power was out there. Charlotte did have a small cast on her ankle, but she seemed to be fine with that, running about and happily participating, if a little slower than her usual. Sally had taken off all her black armour, and was now sitting next to him on what had been deemed his bed, leaning into his side as if she couldn’t image leaving. 

John was sitting in his lap, his head leaning against Greg’s shoulder. He had yawned several times though over the last hour, and Greg knew he was going to crash soon. Everything that had happened was a lot, and even Greg was starting to feel the bone-deep exhaustion. 

He had to do something first, though. 

‘So,’ said a high voice, somehow gravelly at the same time, and almost harsh sounding, yet unbearably young. ‘You’re the Silver Knight. Gregory Lestrade.’ 

Greg looked up from where he had been talking in a quiet voice to Alex, to see that a young boy had approached their little group, and was looking at him through narrowed, blue eyes. He had a mound of curly hair piled messily on his head, and skin as pale as milk. His eyes were an extraordinarily pale shade of blue, and he wore a small tunic in an extremely dark shade of grey, long sleeved with narrow cuffs around the wrist. His tiny stature contrasted with the tall way he held himself, as if he was trying to puff out his chest and look older than he really was. 

Yet he looked just so young. 

Greg grinned. ‘You’re Sherlock, aren’t you?’ he asked the young boy. He saw Sherlock’s eyes widen for a single moment, before they narrowed again, warily. 

‘What of it?’ he asked, suspicious. Greg let out a laugh. He was exactly as Mycroft had described him. 

Sherlock looked a little consternated, pouting, his large lower lip poking out. It reminded Greg of Mycroft for a moment, a jolt up his spine. That wasn’t the only thing. There was something about his eyes, the way Sherlock was looking at him carefully, measuring him, that had a little of Mycroft around the corners. Yet he seemed harsher, somehow; where Mycroft was a rapier, thin and precise, Sherlock’s gaze seemed almost like a hammer, blunt and imperfect. It was as if he was on his way to being Mycroft, but hadn’t quite reached the same precision. ’I’m Greg. It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock.’ 

‘You have dirt and dust between your toes,’ said Sherlock, instead of a response. ‘You came straight off the train and were taken into the hovercraft. You weren’t sleeping though, on the train. You were awake — you have a jitter in your hands. You’ve been awake for a while now. And… let’s see… you’re worried.’ With that, Sherlock rolled his eyes, snorting. ‘Sentiment.’ 

‘Sherlock!’ said Sally, her voice sharp. 

Greg waved it away with a laugh. ‘It’s fine, Sal. I like you, Sherlock,’ he turned back to Sherlock, holding out a hand. 

Sherlock, adorably enough, looked a little placated by this adult gesture, and took ahold of his hand in his own, and shook once. ‘It’s a pleasure,’ smiled Greg. 

Sherlock only bobbed his head, once, his eyes narrow. 

‘I’m John!’ John piped up, sliding off Greg’s lap, and reaching out his own hand. Surprised, and seemingly a little confused by this, Sherlock took John’s hand and shook it, staring with wide eyes at the blond. 

‘Sherlock,’ he said, his voice a little higher in pitch. Greg smiled into a hand, watching the interaction. 

John grinned, happily, and took ahold of Sherlock hand again, clearly squeezing and smiling. ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘Come meet my friends Charlotte and Alex and Sam!’ 

Surprise curling over his features, Sherlock allowed himself to be tugged away to where the other kids had gathered in a corner, drawing with stubs of old pencils on pieces of paper spread all over the floor. Greg watched them go, smiling, as a deep-rooted wish of his came true in front of his eyes. 

John had taken an immediate shine to Sherlock, it was clear to see. John had never had very many friends back in the District. He was sweet, nice and kind, but didn’t talk to people enough. He had been so afraid of others when Greg had first taken him in, but now had confidently dragged Sherlock over to the others. Sherlock had been shoved onto the ground, and John held his hand tightly, not letting the other boy escape, and talking in low voices between themselves. 

Greg smiled, and looked at Sally, who was also grinning into her hand, watching the boys together. He let out a laugh, which she quickly joined in to, nudging him in the shoulder. 

‘I dunno,’ said Sally, her voice shaky with her laugh, ‘Sherlock has wandered around here for ages; no one else wants to be around him. He creeps out all the other kids a bit, I think.’ 

‘Poor thing,’ murmured Greg. ‘Well, John’s good for that.’ 

Sally nudged him, again. 

Next to the fire, Maya was cooking, her head also shoved into a book. Molly had already left, mentioning something about sick people in the medical bay. 

This… this just felt like everything, for a moment. 

Greg leaned into Sally, gently, for just a second, smiling and watching the children draw and talk, their excitement obvious. 

‘Where’s Mycroft?’ Greg asked, after a moment. 

Sally sighed, but shrugged. ‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen him or heard from him since we got you out.’ 

‘Do you reckon he’s back yet?’ 

‘Maybe,’ replied Sally. ‘I have to stay here with the kids, but if you wanna go find out, I’m sure someone’ll tell you. You’re the fucking Silver Knight after all. I can watch John for you.’ 

Greg felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude, and he cast her a smile, before getting up and touching her on the shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I need… I need to find him.’ 

‘Go get ‘im, tiger,’ smiled Sally, waving her thumbs up. Greg shook his head, and turned, meandering back out towards the hangar doors. 

***

Greg walked back out into the hangar, thankful he hadn’t yet been questioned by anyone. People were wandering around, in particular the tunic-wearing officials, with data pads balanced in their arms. Soldiers wearing black armour and holding weapons were all walking off various hovercraft in orderly lines, carrying with them supplies. Refugees and their families were also meandering off, being led away by soldiers towards other hangars, where Greg assumed there was more space set up for them. 

Fiddling with the hem of his ratty shirt, and realising the way he was dressed, Greg meandered over to the nearest official-looking person, a grey haired woman with a severe set of features, her brows low over her eyes, focused on a data pad in her hands. 

‘Excuse me?’ he asked her, nervously. 

She looked up a moment later, annoyance crossing her features before she realised who it was. Immediately, her eyes went wide, and one of her hands flew to her mouth. 

‘Hi,’ Greg grinned, waving at her. ‘Um… do you know where Mycroft Holmes is? I need to speak to him.’ 

‘Uhhh…’ she let out, eloquently. 

Greg held up a hand. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘Take your time. 

‘Silver Knight,’ she blurted out, ‘You’re… I mean… Mr… Commander Lestrade…’

‘Lestrade, yep, that’s me,’ Greg tried, frowning a little now. What was this about Commander Lestrade?

She shook her head, seemingly trying to regain her bearings. ‘Sorry… er… what did you say?’ 

Greg smiled at her, again, trying to be comforting. It was a strange feeling; people being so astonished at the sight of him. Deep down, he still felt so, incredibly normal. He felt like just another run of the mill guy, trying to make ends meet. This whole thing he’d been tossed into felt like some sort of weird alternate reality, sometimes.

‘Have you seen Mycroft Holmes? I need to talk to him. I just want to see him.’ 

‘Right, right,’ she held up a finger. ‘Sorry. General Holmes. Right.’ 

‘Yes, I’d like to talk to General Holmes,’ Greg nodded. 

‘He has gotten back. He’s in a meeting right now though. I can show you where if you’d like?’ 

Greg smiled a genuine grin, his face splitting, and his heart lifting in his chest, beating just a little faster. The directions she led him in were almost haze-like, a sort of trance coming over him as she walked up a flight of stairs, then an elevator. They walked around one of the glass tubes, where he could look out into the main floor of the hangar. 

Then, she came to a closed door, which she knocked on twice, sharply, before turning and walking off. She may have said something about waiting, but Greg couldn’t be sure. 

A moment later, the door slid open, and his heart in his throat, Greg looked through. 

A massive glass-topped table stood in the centre of the room. At the far end, a massive window looked out over the trees — it couldn’t possibly be real. At the table stood three people, but Greg had only eyes for one. 

At the head of the table, framed by the morning light pouring in through the window was a tall figure. He wore the black of a soldier’s outfit, the handle of a sword over one shoulder. Auburn hair lit up in the early sunlight, and high cheekbones cast long shadows over his cheeks. 

Mycroft looked up at him, slate grey eyes wide, his lips pursed tightly. His shoulders rose and fell in breaths, slowly. 

Greg was rooted to the spot. 


	17. Dissolve

‘Mycroft,’ said Greg, knowing a tense smile was spreading over his face. He was angry, sad, yes, but overall, he was happy. He was elated to see Mycroft in all his glory. He had been so scared he’d forget the exact shape of those lips, the exact shade of grey of those slate eyes, the way his auburn hair curled over his forehead. 

But how could he ever forget? 

Seeing that face was like realising all this time he’d been trying so hard to memorise the back of his hand. It was something he’d always known, and always would know. He couldn’t ever forget. 

Mycroft stood upright, folding his hands in front of his body. Their eyes remained locked — Greg couldn’t even fathom the thought of looking anywhere else. There were others in the room, he knew it. There were other people standing there, watching, waiting, their eyes boring into the spectacle. But Greg couldn’t be bothered caring. 

All the shit that had happened, all that time on the train, all the hands of the Capitol citizens on his shoulders, none of it mattered anymore. 

Mycroft’s lips parted, as he seemed to try to find the words to shape something—

A man stepped into Greg’s line of sight. 

Greg found himself uncomfortably jolted back to a reality where other people existed. Where there were other people in that space that felt like it belonged to just him and Mycroft. 

‘Gregory Lestrade,’ said a smooth, rolling voice. Greg looked up to see that the man that had stepped between them was short, and portly. He wore a tunic with a high collar, a series of badges running over one shoulder. His eyes were small, pale and watery in colour, beady and piercing. His mouth was spread wide over the most ugly set of teeth Greg had ever seen — rotten and blackened around the edges, yellowing and almost musty looking. 

His skin was sallow and puckered with marks, and his hair was somewhere between blond and silver. 

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, finally,’ said the man, his grin growing somehow wider. 

Greg felt like he was still in a bit of a haze, his mind still preoccupied with Mycroft’s presence, filling the room. Holding out his hand, numbly, he looked at the man and plastered his Capitol patented smile over his face. ‘Nice to meet you too, mate,’ he said, as pleasantly as he could. ‘Who’re you?’ 

‘I am Culverton Smith,’ said the man, his voice oily, ‘The Leader of the Resistance movement.’ 

Greg snapped his eyes back to the man, jolting back to reality. The leader? What did he mean? 

Greg had been under the impression Mycroft had been the leader this whole time. It made sense, though, that this man was. He seemed the sort, after all. He seemed the sort to puff out his chest and issue orders at the top of his lungs. And besides, for all his qualities, Mycroft was still young. He was still young, even if he didn’t feel like it. Even if sometimes he felt like he was thousands of years old, for how tired he was. 

People didn’t respect youth. He should know. 

‘Ah,’ said Greg, nodding sharply. ‘Nice to meet you, then. Thanks for taking in me and my friends.’ 

Culverton waved it away with a smile, the corners of his eyes creasing, but his eyes cold and distant. ‘It’s no problem. It’s a delight to have you here, actually.’ 

Greg smiled, tersely. 

‘Um,’ he stammered, ‘I’m actually here to see Mycroft, if that’s alright?’ 

Culverton swung his hands up in the air, ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed, an oily smile spreading over his face again. ‘Of course, of course. Please, be my guest!’ 

Greg narrowed his eyes, trying to focus beyond the part of his brain that was just ecstatically screaming Mycroft’s name over and over. There was something heavy about those words, something loaded and ripe, as if there was some meaning he was missing. He had known there was going to be politics, of course, coming into this.

How could there not be? 

This was all so new and fresh, just the idea of people having a choice in how they were led, in how they were governed, of course they were going to disagree. It was only natural. But he had hoped to stand by Mycroft’s side. Because Mycroft would, of course, be the champion. 

Greg knew deep in his bones that Mycroft would win. He had to. Even against adversity. 

But when Culverton finally moved aside, Greg saw that Mycroft’s face had entirely closed off. When Greg had first walked into the entrance of the room, had looked across to where Mycroft was standing, Mycroft’s face had been open. He could see a flicker of the same happiness he felt welling in those slate grey eyes he had spent hours memorising as best he could. 

He had seen a slight loosening of the shoulders, as if Mycroft had relaxed just at the sight of him. 

But now… now Mycroft’s face was closed off. Now Mycroft’s shoulders were tense and tight, and he held himself upright light a statue. 

It reminded Greg of the first time he’d met Mycroft in person; the pillar of a man, closed off in a wall of ice. It reminded Greg of that moment on the roof, when Mycroft had refuted being a god. It reminded Greg of everything he had tried to fight so hard, to get Mycroft to open up to him. To love him. 

And now it was here again. 

Greg felt frustration well up in his belly, as his shoulders dropped of their own accord. 

‘Mycroft?’ he tried, stepping further into the room. ‘Mycroft, it’s me, it’s Greg…’ 

Mycroft’s lips pursed, his slate eyes flat. ‘Apologies, Silver Knight. I would be happy to discuss further your role, however I have just received a message stating my presence is requested in the hangar. Please, make yourself at home.’ 

With that, Mycroft glided around the table, and straight out of the room, past Greg. Mycroft’s profile was steady, his lips straight, his eyes not even sparing a glance for Greg. He didn’t even look.

It was like a punch to the gut.

A waft of that familiar scent washed over Greg, filling his nostrils in a way he’d never thought it’d do again. 

Then it was gone; vanished as if it had never happened. 

Greg gazed after Mycroft, feeling his heart sink in his chest. 

He wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t good enough for Mycroft, now that he wasn’t Mycroft’s only option. 

It was hard, thinking of that. Greg hadn’t prepared himself for it. But suddenly he felt like he was berating himself, because he should have seen it coming. From the get-go, he had been dazzled by Mycroft. Astonished by the wit and humour and elegance of the other man. 

When it had just been the two of them— Greg hadn’t had to compete. He hadn’t thought there was anyone else. But now… now they were in the real world. Now it wasn’t just Mycroft and him. There was everyone else now to contend with. 

And Mycroft was at the top.

He was powerful, handsome, well-spoken… everything Greg really didn’t think he was. Why would Mycroft pick him? 

Suddenly, Greg felt all his self-confidence drain out through his shoes. 

A hand, small and cold, rested on his shoulder suddenly. ‘Apologies,’ said a voice, distasteful. ‘I am sorry for my General. He doesn’t know his manners well at all.’ 

‘It’s fine,’ said Greg, shaking his head. ‘We were friends in the Arena. I didn’t really expect much.’ 

Culverton glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. There was a strange smile playing around those thin lips, a strange smile of self-satisfaction, of smugness, as if Culverton had achieved what he wanted to achieve. 

Greg felt extraordinarily self-conscious, all of sudden. His feet burned in the cold on the metal floor, his ratty shirt hung from his shoulders, and his pants were stained and worn. His hair felt messy and greasy on his forehead, and he knew dark circles were forming under his eyes.

His exhaustion was suddenly overwhelming. 

He only just had the energy to nod at Culverton, a sharp bob of the head, before he marched back down the corridor.

Cool, stagnant air surrounded him suffocating him, as he meandered back through the glass corridors, trying vainly to remember where he was. People would look at him as he walked past, silent, not offering him any sort of direction. Greg guessed it was because he looked utterly frightful — likely escaped from the medical bay Molly had mentioned earlier. It wasn’t so far of a leap to guess. 

He felt it too.

Greg felt like he’d been run over by a bus, his legs wobbly underneath him, his arms lacking energy. He had to stop. 

Leaning against the curved, cool glass of the walkway, he looked out over the massive concrete tube Sally had called the Silo. It was enormous, the sight of the glass tubes above him and below him striking, glowing slightly in the dimness of the Silo. He could see his symbol, splashed across walls, stamped into metal, bolted to signs, and pressed into the armour of the black-wearing soldiers. 

Silently, Greg watched as a hovercraft hummed to life, rapidly floating up almost ethereally from the ground below, through the hatch that hissed open above him, letting in the natural grey light of the sky above, sending it filtering down. It floated gracefully through the hatch, before the hatch slid closed behind it again, cutting off the natural light, and leaving only the dim, pale blue glow of the glass tubes. 

Heaving, Greg got back on to his own two feet again, dragging them down the walkway towards where he could vaguely remember a set of stairs being. 

He hadn’t thought it was going to be like this. 

He hadn’t really know, honestly, what it would be like. But he had a vague impression of arms around his shoulders, lips on his forehead, a heart beating next to his ear. He had a vague sense of words whispered through the darkness into his ear, and a feeling of completeness he hadn’t ever felt before. 

Now, it had all disappeared like smoke on the wind. It had fallen through his fingers, flowing away into the darkness like water. It hovered like a haze, he couldn’t quite reach out and grab it, before it would slip out of his hands. 

The sight of Mycroft’s slate eyes slamming closed he knew would haunt him. 

They would haunt him just like the sight of those same eyes going empty, as Mycroft bled out in his hands. 

He saw the stairs. 

He stopped. 

If he went back down to the hangar where Sally and everyone else was, their joy and elation would overpower him. He would have to psmile and nod and be happy in a way he just didn’t feel like he could manage right now. He couldn’t entertain the thought of being happy when it felt a little like the carpet had been ripped out from under him. 

Make no mistake, he was happy they were out of that train. He was happy he didn’t have to worry about Magnussen any more. But… but he couldn’t help the sadness that was swamping him. 

The despair, and the frustration. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

Silently, Greg turned his back on the stairs, dragging his feet back along the walkway. He took a route he hadn’t before, turning left instead of right, to cross the Silo, over to the other curved wall. Slowly, he made his way along, aimless and directionless. 

For a moment, Greg felt a little like a waif, floating in the wind. There was nothing in his head, as he drifted around, aimlessly, making for a short series of steps upwards, then on another glass tunnel. 

He was about to round a corner, before soft voices drifted through towards him. 

‘Where is Sherlock?’ asked Mycroft’s awfully familiar voice. 

Greg sucked himself to the wall, not daring to poke his head around. He had no idea how long it had been since the conference room, but he knew it had been a couple of hours at least. He knew he’d wandered around this maze of a place, stared at by soldiers and officials wearing tunics alike. He vaguely recalled meandering past another hovercraft, past the stairs, past a platoon. 

His legs were hurting, his feet felt like they were entirely gone, just blank stumps at the end of bony legs. His fingers were numb and shaking. 

‘Last I saw your brother, sir, he was with John Watson in Hangar Five with Sally and the others from District Ten.’

The other voice that spoke was soft, a woman’s voice, smooth and elegant. Mycroft’s new lover? 

Greg couldn’t even entertain the thought in his head. It made his temples throb, his heart beat faster, a lump form in his throat. 

‘Thank you, Anthea,’ replied Mycroft’s voice. It was softer than Greg had heard it before. Gentle and kind, somehow. Kinder than the last time he’d heard it, at least. 

So hard, so steely had Mycroft’s voice been the last time, Greg knew it was colouring all his other memories of Mycroft’s voice. He knew Mycroft’s voice had been kind — but that all felt like distant memory now. A theory, rather than fact. 

This was fact. This was reality. 

‘Do you have the District Five files yet, Anthea?’ 

‘Of course,’ replied the woman, ‘What do you take me for, Mycroft, an idiot?’ 

Mycroft’s soft chuckle rumbled around the corner. ‘Of course not,’ he laughed. ‘I trust you to do your job.’ 

Greg steeled his nerves, bit his tongue, and walked around the corner, trying to enact an air of effortless wandering. Immediately, his eyes caught on the sight standing at the end of the hall. A gorgeous, tall, dark-haired woman with pale eyes stood there. She was wearing tall heels, a simple tunic with a small pin on the shoulder, shaped into the symbol of the Silver Knight — just like the ones plastered around the Silo. 

She was standing next to Mycroft, close together, a smile spreading over her face. Her eyes were focused and bright, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders like a dark waterfall. 

Beside her, Mycroft’s slate eyes were twinkling, his shoulders more relaxed, his long fingers crossed in front. 

As soon as Greg took a few steps down the hall, both pairs of eyes turned on him. Immediately, Greg felt a little part of him wilt, but he had to stand tall. He had to stand strong. 

He had to be brave. 

Mycroft’s face had closed off again, and he had leaned over to whisper in Anthea’s ear. Greg felt his footsteps falter beneath him, his legs tremble, his hands shake. He had to do this. 

Anthea, who had been smiling at the sight of him, immediately frowned, her brows creasing. She turned to Mycroft, her lips parted, before Mycroft shook his head, and then returned his eyes to Greg. By that point, Greg had gotten halfway down the walkway towards them. 

Immediately, Mycroft laid a hand on the dark-haired woman’s shoulder, before spinning on one heel and gracefully gliding off around a corner, not even sparing a glance for Greg. 

Trying not to let it affect him, Greg returned his gaze to Anthea. 

Her beauty was overwhelming, effervescent and somehow effortless, as her face split into a smile. Greg clenched his hands tighter into fists. 

‘Gregory Lestrade,’ she smiled, her lips spreading wide and a bright grin lighting up her features. ‘I’ve heard so much about you, it’s nice to meet you.’ 

Greg opened his mouth, trying to find the words to reply. 

He couldn’t muster them. 

Slowly, the smile fell from her face, the longer Greg remained silent. ‘Are… are you alright?’ she asked, slowly. 

Greg didn’t know how to reply to that, either. 

Anthea sighed, her head falling, her hair shimmering in the dim light. ‘I do understand. But… I…’ 

She trailed off into silence. Greg watched her, allowing the silence to continue for a little longer. 

Anthea let out a soft sigh. ‘Come with me.’ 

She crooked a finger. 

Greg couldn’t think of what else to do, so he followed after her, trailing behind her slowly, feeling every inch of where they were different. Every inch of her curves comparing to his own rough, ragged edges. 

She tapped a door, and it slid open obediently for her, opening into a small room with a single bed pushed over into the far corner. It was very plain, clearly some sort of converted storage room. But the sight of a bed was enough for Greg’s overwhelming exhaustion to wash through him yet again. 

‘Go on,’ she murmured. ‘I promise, things’ll change. I’ll make sure they do.’ 

Greg didn’t respond to that, either, just made straight for the bed, and collapsed on top of it in a heap. Almost immediately, the exhaustion overtook him, and he fell into a deep sleep. 

***

‘What the _fuck _are you doing?!’ Anthea’s angry, loud voice was the first thing that assaulted Mycroft, his ears thrumming with the very force of it. 

Looking up from his papers, Mycroft artfully slid a confused look over his face, as his assistant marched through the door, her face filled with rage. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ murmured Mycroft, sighing and running a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than it already was. 

Anthea’s cheeks turned red — her head looked as if it was going to pop. Mycroft knew exactly what this was about. 

‘You’re a fucking dick sometimes, Mycroft,’ scoffed Anthea, throwing her hands in the air. ‘First you refuse to be the one to bring him back by some cooked up excuse about your duty—‘ 

‘—I have a duty,’ Mycroft tried to cut in, mildly. 

‘Bullshit,’ snorted Anthea. ‘And now you utterly ignore him, you completely turn your nose up at him. You’re breaking his heart, Mycroft, you dick.’ 

‘Gregory is far stronger than you give him credit for, Anthea,’ Mycroft murmured, even while her words cut him to the bone. He knew what he was doing was wrong. He knew the decision he had come to was wrong. But he had to keep going. He didn’t have a choice. 

That moment, though. 

The moment he’d first seen Gregory; that had hurt more than anything. Gregory, in all his glory, his beauty, but marred by his weeks in the Capitol. His silver hair, still shimmering, his deep brown eyes still wide and soulful. His tan skin, warm and inviting, those hands, those arms, that voice…

All of it. 

For a moment, Mycroft had entirely forgotten his plan in favour of just drinking the sight in. Waiting, watching him, feeling his presence, knowing he was breathing the same air Mycroft was. 

And yet… 

The haze of the Capitol hung over him. There was a darkness playing around those brown eyes. Circles hanging under beautiful brown like unwanted baggage. His hair, dull and less gleaming than the last time he’d seen it in person. Those shoulders, which had slumped further when Mycroft had forced himself to centre. Forced himself to remember the plan. 

It was like ripping out his nails from the beds. 

Water torture — single drops on his forehead, over and over again until he went insane. Until his own mind burst out at the seams, pushing out from behind his eyes, blooming out of his ears…

Enough. 

‘He will survive this,’ murmured Mycroft, ‘And once this is all over…’ 

‘Then what, Mycroft?’ demanded Anthea. ‘You think he’ll just let this all slide? You think he’ll let it all go?’ 

Mycroft looked down at his hands, trembling a little on the table top. He flexed them once, slamming them down on the table in an effort to stop the shaking. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘If this must be my sacrifice for the bigger picture then so be it.’ 

‘Fuck that,’ hissed Anthea, leaning forwards on the table, her face inches from his, her brows contorted in anger. ‘Fuck that, Mycroft.’ 

‘I have to think of the bigger picture, Anthea. I have to. The bigger picture is that Gregory makes me weak. He is an easy target for Culverton Smith. You were in that room. You saw what Culverton said. What Culverton did. Culverton could use Gregory against me, don’t you see? The further away I push him, the safer he is.’ 

‘You’re wrong,’ Anthea whispered, leaning back, and crossing her arms over her chest. ‘You’re so wrong, Mycroft. You’re so, so wrong.’ 

‘I am not,’ Mycroft shook his head. 

‘That’s not why you’re pushing him away, either. I know it’s not. I know you better than that, Mycroft.’ 

Mycroft looked up at her, skeptical. Scoffing, he looked out the window to his left, focusing on the birds wheeling through the grey sky, circling like vultures over a dead carcass. Mycroft knew better than to think they were actually vultures, but at the same time…

‘He can _help_ you, Mycroft,’ murmured Anthea. ‘Did you see the footage from when he arrived, earlier? Do you know how many people reached for him? How many people stroked his shoulders, or clamoured just to hear his voice? See his smile?

‘Everyone. Even the ones who think we should be merciless. He is a symbol of unity. He is the future, you have to know that! He is powerful, and he barely even knows it.’ 

Mycroft knew he was smiling, fondly, but he could help the thoughts of Gregory from twisting the corners of his mouth. Anthea was smirking, smugly, and Mycroft could bear to turn and see it. 

‘You know I’m right,’ said Anthea, softly. ‘You know he’s a powerful ally. So that’s your argument, proven bullshit. So there has to be another reason that you’ve cast him aside.’ 

‘There isn’t,’ Mycroft said, steeling himself. He had to. He had no choice. 

Culverton was already worming his way inside. He was already trying to get into Mycroft’s head by holding Gregory over him once before. He could do it again. Use Gregory to get into his head. He couldn’t afford that. 

Anthea hissed like a defensive cat. ‘Stop bullshitting me, Mycroft.’ 

Mycroft looked at Anthea, sharply. He hadn’t heard this much swearing from his old friend for a very long time. It was a shock to the system, a jolt up his spine. Usually Anthea was well-spoken, she was elegant and calm in all she did and said. But this version of her, this spitting, angry, defensive version of her was coming for him with knives bared. 

He wondered why, vaguely, for a moment. 

‘We have to plan, Anthea,’ Mycroft said, after a beat of silence. ‘I have a duty. We can consider this at a less dire junction. For now, we must plan the liberation of District Eleven.’ 

Surprised, Anthea glanced at him. ‘Did Smallwood finally agree to let you take the District?’ 

‘To the consternation of Culverton,’ Mycroft affirmed, nodding his head sharply, and pulling a data pad out of the pile. He laid it down between them, showing Elizabeth’s signature at the bottom of the agreement, next to his own sweeping lines, and Culverton’s jagged hand. 

‘It should be easier than District Five. We lost many good soldiers to those still loyal to the old world,’ said Mycroft, nodding. ‘However, I think soon we have to consider District Two.’ 

‘District Two?’ queried Anthea, raising a brow. ‘How are you going to get into there? It’s riddled with Peacekeepers.’ 

‘Exactly,’ murmured Mycroft, ‘That is just it, isn’t it?’ 

Anthea let out a low inhale of breath. A realisation. 

‘Gregory… Lestrade…’ 

‘He is who you think he is,’ said Mycroft. ‘His father was…’ 

‘I see,’ said Anthea, nodding sharply. ‘So there is yet another reason.’ 

Mycroft scoffed. ‘It is not a problem for me who Gregory’s father was. It does not matter to me. It never did.’ 

‘It doesn’t matter to you who he is,’ sighed Anthea, shaking her head. ‘Of course it doesn’t. It matters to you what it _means, _Mycroft. Lestrade is already powerful, without knowing it. He is a symbol of unity.’ She let out a low laugh. ‘In more ways than one, it seems.’ 

‘Indeed,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘It is a conundrum.’ 

‘You’re wrong,’ nodded Anthea, again. ‘It isn’t. It’s so, so simple. You’re making it complicated. You, and your need to be clever. It’s not always clever, Mycroft. It’s sometimes so simple that even the most dense of your goldfishes could make out the truth. And yet it escapes you.’ 

‘Anthea…’ 

‘No!’ snapped Anthea, suddenly slamming a hand down on the table. ‘What are you trying to do here, Mycroft?’ she questioned, raising a perfect brow. ‘What exactly are you trying to achieve?’ 

‘A solution,’ replied Mycroft. ‘An answer.’ 

‘You have the answer screaming in your face.’ 

‘I am trying to build a better world,’ said Mycroft. ‘A good world.’ 

‘And what does this _good world _have? Love? Mercy? Kindness?’ 

‘All of those things,’ Mycroft replied, leaning back. ‘And more. Justice. Equality. Fairness. Freedom. A choice for everyone who has ever been denied. A voice for everyone who has ever been denied.’ 

‘Then why are you pushing away the one man who embodies all those things that you want?’ 

Mycroft sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He had seen this coming. 

‘The way you talk about him, Mycroft,’ Anthea sighed, softly. ‘You told me those months ago, just after you got out of the hospital. You told me everything about him, Mycroft. The way you spoke about him, the way he was… he was everything, Mycroft. You have to know that.’ 

‘Of course he was,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘He is everything.’ 

‘You broke his heart, Mycroft. When you looked away, earlier. When you walked away. You should have seen the way he looked at me. He looked at me entirely as if he couldn’t understand. He couldn’t see.

‘His eyes… I’ll never forget it.’ 

Her words pierced holes straight through Mycroft’s internal walls. They punched their way through his mind, puncturing holes and letting his soul bleed out through his feet. He could feel his heart slamming in his chest. 

‘You’re right,’ said Anthea. ‘I watched the tapes back. I watched everything he’s done in the Games, I saw him volunteer for Alex Donovan. I watched him with that little blonde girl in the Games, Suzie Gates. He was kind, and loving, generous, merciful, all those things that the world you want to build needs. What people here, need. 

‘What you need, now.

‘You’re fighting a war, Mycroft. A war on three fronts. You’re fighting Magnussen and the Capitol, yes. But you’re also fighting Culverton and his cruelty and mercilessness, and you’re fighting yourself, as well.’

Leaning back, Mycroft steepled his fingers under his chin. 

‘Culverton is going to win unless you do something now. He’s going to sink his teeth into Lestrade. He’s going to sink his teeth in and use his fingers to rip Lestrade apart and then what are you left with? Nothing. He’s your best ally, Mycroft,’ said Anthea. ‘And I won’t forgive you if you do this.’ 

‘Why do you care so much?’ asked Mycroft, honestly curious, narrowing his eyes at his old friend. 

‘Because I care about _you, _Mycroft. And I know what you want, what you need,’ Anthea said, sitting down in the seat across from his, her face smiling softly. ‘But more than anything I believe in the world you’re trying to create. It’s as simple as that.’ 

***

Greg awoke to a simple, concrete roof, arching above him. The bed below him was far more uncomfortable than the ones he’d grown used to over the last few weeks in the Capitol, and he couldn’t be gladder for it. It was an immediate reminder of where he was, who he was with. 

That John was safe, and happy. 

John. 

The last time Greg could remember seeing his son, John had been tugging Sherlock off in the hangar, the young, dark-haired boy surprised by John’s enthusiasm. The reminder made him smile. 

He had no idea how long it had been. 

The nap he’d taken had helped, though. He felt more human, for the first time in weeks. He felt like the circles under his eyes were gone, as a new strength flowed through his veins. He was ready. 

He was here for a reason. He had something to do. 

Getting up out of bed, new purpose flooding his bones, Greg rolled off the low bed, and towards the door. He was energised, his body thrumming, his hands finally steady. Free from the yoke of the Capitol— he was free. 

Pausing, a moment, the sudden memory of Mycroft rocked through him. He waited for the sadness, for the grief, the black despair. He waited, his breath burning in his lungs. 

It didn’t come. 

Yes, it was there, if he dug, a crystalline, sharp shard deep within him. 

But now, rested, and more human, he felt the rage boiling in his veins. The anger, deep anger with Mycroft’s rejection, and everything Mycroft had done up to this point. Everything he had done. 

Mycroft had let him believe he was _dead_ for five months. Mycroft had let him go through all that grief, all that pain. He could remember the deep pain as if it had been yesterday, the ragged hole punched through the centre of his chest. If he felt out his mind, he could feel it still there, worn at the edges, bloody and broken. 

But above all of it was burning, fiery rage. Anger like he’d never felt before. Anger for that five months of wallowing, sadness, deep grief, the memory of Mycroft’s dying eyes, and the dagger sticking out of his chest haunting his dreams. 

And above that, frustration. Frustration with what Mycroft was doing now, pushing him aside, leaving him on the edges. Looking away when Greg reached for him. 

Greg knew he didn’t have any sort of _right _to Mycroft’s touch. He didn’t have a right to hold Mycroft’s hand, to stand by Mycroft’s side. But he didn’t have to stand by and let it happen, either. He could fight. 

Greg had always been a fighter. He’d always been the one standing up for everyone else, why couldn’t he stand up for himself? 

He didn’t deserve Mycroft’s touch, Mycroft’s hand, Mycroft’s side, Mycroft’s heart. But fuck it, he deserved at least an explanation. 

With that burning its way onto Greg’s mind, he stepped across the room. The door slid open to reveal the external corridor, and a woman waiting for him. A woman he recognised. 

Anthea looked up at him, her features creasing into a kind smile.The corners of her eyes creased, as her face split into a bright grin. Greg showed his teeth in return. 

She balked at the sight, but didn’t seem to be too put off, her smile only slightly faltering. ‘Now, you seem a little more awake. I’m Anthea. I’m General Holmes’ assistant.’ 

‘Assistant?’ queried Greg, feeling an irrational burst in his chest. 

‘Yes,’ smiled Anthea, nodding. ‘I am. He doesn’t know I’m here, though. I’m not really supposed to talk to you.’ 

‘Really?’ asked Greg, his voice arching. ‘That’s interesting.’ 

Anthea’s lips were pursed — she was clearly trying to hide a smile. ‘I want to take you to him right away. I can see you’re angry. But I think you need to change, first.’ 

Greg smiled, sheepishly. ‘Probably,’ he replied, fingering the edge of his ratty shirt. ‘I have been wearing this for a while. How long’s it been?’ 

‘Well, it’s about late afternoon. We’re heading towards night, really.’ 

‘I slept for a while, then,’ Greg said. 

Anthea nodded, crooking a finger before gesturing for him to follow her down the corridor. He didn’t really know where she was leading him, but he decided to follow her. He had jumped to conclusions, earlier. Clearly, he’d at least been wrong about who Anthea was. 

‘Have you seen my son?’ asked Greg, shaking his head. 

‘I haven’t,’ replied Anthea. ‘But I do know from the surveillance that he’s definitely with Sherlock. I think they’re digging through the storage on Floor Seven. 

‘Sherlock has a little hideaway he likes to think is a secret from his brother.’ 

‘It’s not, is it?’ snorted Greg, rolling his eyes. 

‘No,’ replied Anthea, ‘Of course it’s not. The day Sherlock outsmarts Mycroft is the day I eat my favourite dress.’ 

‘That’s something I think I’d like to see,’ snarked Greg. Anthea cast a look over her shoulder at him, snorting in kind. 

Anthea was leading him to a set of hydraulic doors, which slid open into a bright room. Around the room, soldiers were scurrying about. On the far side, groups of people in normal-looking clothing were gathered, waiting in a line. Greg could see they were being handed the hard carapaces that the other soldiers were wearing, along with a helmet. No weapons were being handed out, though. 

On the other side of the massive hangar, soldiers were lining up in a messy sort of order, all gathering around different, gleaming weapons. 

‘How are you guys so well stocked up?’ asked Greg, raising an eyebrow at Anthea. ‘I mean, for a rebel group, you’re all well-armoured and stocked.’ 

‘Yes,’ nodded Anthea. ‘You see, this has been in the works for a very long time.’ 

‘Ah,’ nodded Greg, deciding not to dwell on it for too long. He couldn’t work through too many things at once — that would have to be something for later. For now… Mycroft.

Mycroft sat at the forefront of his mind. He was of course concerned as to where all his family was, where John was with Sherlock, and Sally, Molly, Maya and the other kids. But right now… right now Mycroft was flooding his mind. 

He had formed a sort of plan. 

Anthea looked like she was going to help him. 

In fact, she was leading him over to another corner, and through another set of doors. Inside, there was a small room, and in the centre, decorating a mannequin, was something Greg had almost feared. 

It was a set of armour, a little similar to that worn by the other soldiers. But in many ways, it was different. For one thing, it seemed to almost glow; bright silver and grey, plates interlocking neatly. Stamped onto the front of the outfit was the symbol of the Silver Knight, the symbol of the Resistance. His symbol. 

Perhaps the most astonishing part of the whole ensemble was the sword sitting on the back of the armour. The bright hilt of it protruded over what would be Greg’s right shoulder, and etched into it was the symbol, again reprised. 

‘It was made for you perfectly,’ said Anthea. ‘We designed it exactly for you.’ 

‘Anthea,’ said Greg, ‘It’s perfect.’ 

‘Good,’ she smiled. 

Deep down, a part of him was shouting in protest. But it was one of those things he would deal with later. Right now, he had another purpose in mind. 


	18. Stand

Greg rounded the corner Anthea had told him to, Anthea herself hot on his heels. He was walking with purpose, now, a strength to his steps, rehearsing what he needed to say in his head, over and over again. The armour was a heavy, silver weight on his shoulders, the sword crossing his back. He could feel it sitting there, the heft, the weight of it making his spine tingle. 

All around him, people were gazing. Soldiers had halted in their tracks to look at him, refugees watching him with open mouths, officials blatantly gawking. He looked nothing like anyone else around here - he was entirely unique. 

He was shining, he knew it. 

It had filled him with a strange, burning confidence that leached through every step that he took. 

Beside him, Anthea was smiling into her hand. 

‘Where was he last you heard?’ asked Greg, frowning. 

‘He’s in a meeting,’ replied Anthea, ‘With Commander Smallwood and Commander Smith.’ 

‘What’s the deal with them?’ Greg asked, looking back at Mycroft’s assistant as they rounded another corner. ‘That man. Smith. He creeped me the fuck out.’ 

Anthea snorted. ‘I like you,’ she said, between peals of laughter. Greg tossed a grin back over his shoulder at her, as they shot up a set of stairs. His armour clinked around him. For armour, it was surprisingly lightweight and easy to wear, shockingly breathable. 

‘Commander Culverton Smith represents a certain, sizeable portion of people in the Resistance. He represents the part of the Resistance that won’t forgive. The part of the Resistance that wants to cut everyone in the Capitol down, as mercilessly as possible.' 

'I've been there,’ said Greg, frowning. ‘I’ve been around those people. Yeah, there are the ones that are cruel, that watch horrible blood sports for fun. But there are also the kind ones. The good ones. The ones that just haven’t been given the education to realise their casual cruelty. Like Calypso. She was kind to me, she’s always been kind to me. She just doesn’t know the truth.’ 

Anthea let out a low sigh, bowing her head. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘And I am advocating for mercy. As is Mycroft. But it is more difficult than you think. For you, mercy is easy.’ 

Greg let out a low, humourless laugh. ‘Trust me,’ he muttered. ‘It’s not as easy as you think. It’s hard to want to forgive, even when I know it’s the right thing to do. But it is the right thing to do. When… when I thought Mycroft was dead… I was so angry. I wanted to rip it all down, tear it all apart, burn it all to ash. I understand where they’re coming from, if you get what I mean.’ 

Anthea didn’t respond, just bobbed her head sharply. 

Greg paused, turning, and caught her arm. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I understand that anger. The desire just to be as cruel to them as they have been cruel to us. But we have to resist.’ 

Anthea looked up at him, her light eyes sad. ‘Of course we do. I think… personally… Mycroft’s quite conflicted over it. He’s conflicted over which side to be on. 

‘Before… before the Games, he was like Culverton in a lot of ways. Perhaps not as bloodthirsty, but merciless, yes. Cruel, even. But when he came back — he was different. I don’t know why. I like to think he became kinder because of you.’ 

Greg ran a hand through his hair, looking down at his feet. ‘I don’t know about that. I don’t think I changed Mycroft that much. But… the Games… they change people. They changed me. I was passive, you know. Before, I mean. I didn’t really care much about everyone else, I just cared about protecting the people I loved, and that was it. I cared about my life on my farm, and I was happy there. 

‘But after the Games… all those children pretty much executed…’ He shook his head, running his hand through his hair again, trying to search for the words. It was practically impossible. He shook his head, again. 

Anthea’s eyes softened, though. She seemed to understand what he was saying, without him having to say it, and for that he was eternally grateful. He couldn’t figure out a way to say it. 

There was a beat of silence. 

‘Come on,’ Anthea said, smiling, a moment later. ‘Let’s go find Mycroft.’ 

Greg nodded, gratefully. ‘Thanks, Anthea. Thanks for helping me.’ 

‘No problem,’ she replied. ‘You’re the Silver Knight.’ 

There was a flicker of something there. A flicker of annoyance. ‘I never really wanted to be the Silver Knight,’ said Greg. ‘I don’t really want to just be a symbol.’ 

‘You’re not,’ said Anthea. ‘I know that, and I’ve only been talking to you really for about an hour, and I can see that. But… Greg… there’s a _reason _people look up to you. There’s a reason people love you. There’s a reason they call you the Silver Knight. You’re selfless, loving… everything these people around us want to be. 

‘They don’t want to think of themselves as being the beggars in the mud. That’s hard for anyone to believe of themselves. They want to be as noble and as brave as you. As selfless and loving as you. That’s why you’re a symbol.’ 

Greg shook his head. It was something he’d have to deal with later. He had something to do right now. A point to make. He would deal with this all later. 

Even though he hated the idea of being a symbol, it didn’t really feel like he had much choice. It was far better to be a symbol of the Resistance in any case, rather than a symbol of the Capitol, which was what Magnussen had made him try to be. That was what this silver armour was for. That was what the sword was for. That was what all those symbols were for. They weren’t for him as a person, they were for who he represented; the Silver Knight. 

For now, that would have to be enough. 

Up ahead of them, there was a familiar set of sliding doors. They were the same doors that Greg had been through earlier, when he had first seen Mycroft since arriving in the Silo. 

‘Through there?’ asked Greg, sharply, pointing a gloved hand at the door. 

Anthea nodded. ‘Yes. Come on, I can get us inside.’ 

Greg nodded, smiling tersely, but gratefully at her. She walked up to the doors, holding out a small, round chip emblazoned with the symbol of the Resistance. It glowed blue, for a moment, a low bell tolling, before the doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss. 

Inside was a similar scene to the last time. The familiar form of Culverton Smith was standing to the left of the oval, glass-topped conference table. His beady eyes immediately snapped to Greg, and Greg enjoyed the moment of Smith’s eyes widening, for a minute second. 

Across the table from Culverton’s stout form was a tall, lean woman with ashy blonde hair. She had small, twitching features and watery eyes, herlips small and terse. She looked almost like she had just sucked a lemon. She was also looking at Greg, but not with surprise, simply with an almost unreadable, evaluating expression. It was as if she was taking his measure, and still trying to decide what he had scored. 

Of course, at the head of the table, Mycroft was standing.

He was dressed in a dark blue, pinstripe, three-piece suit; extraordinarily similar to the one Greg had first seen him in when they had met. It was almost eerie. An elegant tie ran down the length of Mycroft’s chest, disappearing into the matching waistcoat he wore. 

The only difference between that night on the roof of the Tribute tower, and now, was that Mycroft had a silver pin on his lapel, in the shape of the Resistance’s symbol. 

_My symbol, _thought Greg, suddenly possessive. John had made that for him. John hadn’t made it to be the symbol of something bigger than Greg. It had just been a little memento John had made in the space of a few hours; something that wasn’t supposed to mean anything but John’s love for him. It was something that had warmed his heart, once upon a time. 

Now, Greg could only imagine what this looked like from Mycroft’s perspective. He had seen himself in the mirror before they left the armoury; he had looked every part the Silver Knight, every part the rebel he was supposed to be. He looked like he was on the warpath, which, he guessed, he was. 

Greg let a small smile crease his features, as he saw Mycroft’s slate grey eyes widen at the sight of him. It was a minute twitch, a single second before Mycroft looked sharply away, but it was there. And Greg couldn’t think of anything more satisfying. 

‘Good evening,’ Greg said, speaking as clearly as he could. ‘Gregory Lestrade. We met earlier — I’m afraid I wasn’t at my best. I’m sorry for that.’ 

‘Apology accepted,’ said the woman, Commander Smallwood, Greg guessed. Her voice was light, and slightly breathy, almost raspy, really. It wasn’t a particularly strong voice. 

However, she was looking at him as if she’d finally made a decision as to how she was going to think of him. Her eyes were twinkling, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth. She looked… impressed, for lack of a better word. 

Greg smiled back at her, as wide as he could, his eyes creasing around the corners. The smile seemed to take her off guard, even as he scuffed a hand through his hair in what he had been told was a charming way. 

‘Please, don’t stop your meeting for me,’ said Greg. ‘I would like to be involved, though.’ 

‘Well,’ said Culverton, his voice smooth and somehow oily. ‘We have recently had a vacancy.’ 

Greg let his smile drop, and turned to Culverton, trying not to let his face curl into a sneer. He glared at the man, knowing his disgust was coming through his eyes even as he smiled at the man, tightly. 

‘It’s appreciated, Smith,’ said Greg, making a point of dropping the title before the surname. Culverton barely looked off-put, a slight frown playing around the corners of his mouth. 

Good. 

Greg had to establish himself as a power here. He had to establish himself as someone with autonomy, not just a passive stand-by, able to be manipulated and used. 

He’d had enough of being used by people. Magnussen, Dimmock, even Mycroft to a certain extent. Enough was enough. He had to be his own person. 

‘So,’ said Greg, placing his hands down on the table, the armour clinking on the glass. ‘What are the plans?’ 

Culverton spluttered, coughing into his hand. Across the table, Mycroft seemed a little shocked, his slate eyes flashing as he looked to his left over his shoulder. 

‘Indeed,’ said Smallwood, her eyes twinkling. ‘Silver Knight. We’d happily bring you into the fold. In fact, as General Holmes was just discussing with us, he is coming up with a plan to get into District Two.’ 

‘Why District Two?’ queried Greg, his eyes snapping to Mycroft. Mycroft didn’t look at him, even then. ‘Why not one of the other Districts? District Eleven needs our help more.’ 

‘District Two has more resources,’ said Culverton, his voice sharp. ‘And that is where Peacekeepers are trained. We need the weapons and resources that District can provide.’ 

‘You have a lot of resources already,’ said Greg. ‘They would be more valuable spent on people who need it. Not just making the Resistance richer. That’s not what this is supposed to be about.’ 

‘This is a war, Silver Knight,’ sniped Culverton, his voice smooth. ‘You may not understand this, but we do need more than just noble intentions to win a war. We require resources. We will require an endless amount if we are eventually to take the Capitol.’ 

Greg snorted. ‘Helping people should be our first priority. Why does it matter if we have resources to take the Capitol right now? We aren’t taking the Capitol right now. I’m not saying don’t try and take District Two. But I really think you should help District Eleven first.’ 

Culverton peered at him through beady eyes. ‘Why do you care so much about this District?’ he asked, needling Greg. Greg frowned. ‘They don’t have much there. Just food that we already have an abundance of, and refugees of which we already have too many.’ 

‘Exactly,’ said Greg, raising a finger. ‘We should be helping them, not worrying about stockpiling weapons.’ 

Culverton didn’t respond, just sat back in his chair, and folded his hands on the table in front of him. Both he and Smallwood glanced at the head of the table; the elephant in the room. 

Mycroft hadn’t said anything. Not up to this point. He hadn’t said anything about which District, he hadn’t mentioned about his own plans. He hadn’t said a word since Greg had entered the room. 

The implication was that he had been speaking, before Greg entered. It was only when Greg entered the room had he fallen silent.

It wasn’t difficult to make the connection. 

Greg cleared his throat. ‘Well, _General Holmes,_’ he bit out, his voice sharp even to his own ears. ‘What do you think?’ 

Finally, Mycroft turned back to the table, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his eyes cool and calm. Greg knew better, though. He could see Mycroft’s shoulders hardening, the edges of his form unnaturally still, statuesque. 

Once again, it reminded Greg of that moment on the roof, when Mycroft refuted being a god. It reminded Greg of the first time he’d seen Mycroft, standing on the roof. It reminded Greg of seeing Mycroft on the clock tower, confronting Moriarty for the last time. 

It was like a punch to the gut. 

The well of emotions Greg ruthlessly pushed down, out of the way, cutting it off before it could grow any further. It was harder than he thought it would be, yet somehow also easier. 

‘District Two is the best option for widening our resources in order to more successfully support the other Districts, and unify the people of Panem. We require those resources to build a backbone in this Resistance.’ 

Mycroft’s voice was cool and commanding. It brooked no argument, forcing its will on everyone who heard it. It wasn’t good enough. 

Greg had to push back. ‘I don’t think you’re right, Holmes,’ snapped Greg. ‘I think—‘ 

Mycroft held up one, long-fingered hand. ‘Enough,’ he said, brutally cool. ‘We are out of time. Commander Smith, you are required in a conference with the administrators for the resources. Commander Smallwood, I know you have been up all night overseeing the migration of District Five’s power command to the Silo. Please feel free to rest as you need. I have a militia to oversee.’ 

With that, Mycroft turned away again to look out the window, waving an imperious hand over his shoulder. At his own side, Greg could practically hear Anthea steaming. 

Culverton brushed past Greg on his way out, casting him a look. A small smile of triumph was bleeding around the corners of Culverton’s eyes and mouth. There was something… Culverton knew this was coming. 

This had been him, all along. Greg wasn’t sure what he’d said to Mycroft, what he’d done. But he hadn’t expected it, to be sure. He hadn’t expected Mycroft to be rattled by someone like Culverton. Clearly, he had been wrong. 

Culverton vanished out the door, his stout form disappearing around a corner. Smallwood also brushed past him, casting him a glance out of the corner of her eye. 

Greg wasn’t sure, entirely, what to make of her. He wasn’t sure if, when push came to shove, she would stand by his side, or by the side of the merciless and the cruel amongst them. 

But that was a problem for another day. For the time, the issue stood before him, at the other end of the conference table. 

Anthea laid a small, cool hand on his arm. Entirely silently, Greg nodded at her. She nodded back, seeming to get the message, before she too vanished from the room, the door sliding shut behind her. That left behind just him and Mycroft, standing in the same room, alone for the first time. 

Mycroft didn’t look at him, just turning and picking up a data pad and a pile of documents from the glass table. When he stood upright again, he seemed to be looking past Greg, looking over his shoulder, anywhere but him or his face. 

‘Mycroft,’ said Greg, trying for soft. 

It didn’t catch Mycroft’s attention at all. However, a muscle did jump in Mycroft’s jaw, betraying a clenching of his teeth. Greg stepped closer, edging around the table. 

Still as a statue, Mycroft remained. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg tried again, his voice sharper now, halting in his progression. ‘What was that? Why aren’t you letting me say what I think?’ 

‘Enough, Gregory,’ Mycroft snapped, his voice suddenly filled with something Greg couldn’t quite name. Yet the warmth that suffused through Greg when Mycroft finally used his name was enough to buoy him. He was getting somewhere. 

Yet Mycroft still wouldn’t look at him. 

Enough. 

‘Look at me!’ 

Greg knew as he spoke, as he practically screamed the words out, his pent-up frustration, anger and sadness was finally boiling over. It echoed in his words, bouncing around the room, the demand throaty and loud. 

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, his breaths panting through his lungs, the cool air burning in his throat. He could feel the press of tears of frustration behind his eyes, as his fists curled and balled up. 

And finally, the shock of the words still reverberating through the room, Mycroft looked up at him. Those slate grey eyes captured him, just like the very first time. 

Greg’s mind was silent. 

It had felt like for the last few months, ever since the Games ended, his mind had been shouting at him, screaming at him from all different sides and there was nothing he could do to stop it. But now, with Mycroft’s familiar slate eyes on his, he could finally breathe. He could finally hear himself think over the cacophony of his brain. 

Greg slowly stepped closer, keeping his eyes locked with Mycroft’s. He tried hard to capture Mycroft’s attention just like Mycroft captured his own. 

Soon, he was only standing a foot away from Mycroft. 

Slowly, as slowly as he could manage, Greg reached for Mycroft’s loose hand, hanging down by his side. Silently, he slid Mycroft’s hand into his own, threading their fingers together, and squeezing tight, just like when they had run across the land bridge, away from their drowned skyscraper and the tiny world they had built for themselves. 

‘Gregory,’ murmured Mycroft, his voice low and breathy. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg replied, leaning forwards to breathe in the same air that his lover was. He could smell Mycroft’s rich scent this close, the rich scent of life, the salt of sweat and smooth, silky fabric. 

‘I’m sorry,’ said Greg. ‘For whatever it is I did.’ He squeezed Mycroft’s loose hand, again. ‘I wish I knew why you’re pushing me away. But I don’t. So explain it to me, love? In ways I can understand.’ 

Mycroft’s eyes looked down, momentarily, before flashing back up. 

Slowly, so slowly Greg could barely believe it was happening, Mycroft’s hand curled. Mycroft’s long fingers squeezed over the back of Greg’s hand, as the soft pads of his fingers began a slow, entrancing dance over Greg’s skin.

‘You did nothing, Gregory,’ murmured Mycroft. There was a strange mix of guilt playing around Mycroft’s eyes, a small, soft smile beginning to form on those lips, betraying Mycroft’s mind. ‘Nothing at all. I must be strong. Just as you are strong.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘It’s not just you, love,’ he murmured. ‘It’s me. I’m here. I’m with you. I’m on your side. I’m always gonna be.’ 

Mycroft sighed, dropping the data pad to the glass table, along with the papers. Slowly, ever so slowly, he reached up his other hand, long fingers edging up towards Greg’s jaw. 

Greg knew an involuntary smile was spreading over his face, a smile of pure joy and elation, because that was all he could feel right now. The warmth of Mycroft’s hand in his own was unbearably, unbelievably real. Greg fancied he could even hear Mycroft’s heartbeat, next to his own. 

Mycroft’s cool, long fingered hand crept over his jaw, stroking over a cheekbone and up to brush near Greg’s ear. His slate eyes were wide and calm; deep pools of grey liquid, moving and shifting softly in some sort of unseen breeze. 

‘Listen to me, Mycroft,’ Greg murmured. ‘Just listen, okay? I’m standing next to you, alright? 

‘Anthea told me exactly what was going on.’ Mycroft’s hand froze on Greg’s cheek. Greg could feel that he was about to move away, so as quick as lighting, he brought up his other hand, encouraging Mycroft to keep his own hand where it was. ‘She told me about Culverton. About who Culverton represents, and what he’s trying to do. It’s not going to work, alright? Because I’m standing beside you. 

‘We’re going to beat him, you and me. Together, we’re going to beat Culverton, and we’re going to beat Magnussen. You know that, don’t you? You know I’d do anything to fight for the world you told me about. The kind world. The good world. You know I’m going to fight for _us, _as well. _Our _future. The one we talked about in the skyscraper during the Games.’ 

Mycroft shook his head, looking down. ‘How can… how are you forgiving me?’ he queried, looking back up at Greg with wide, questioning eyes. ‘I left you for five months, Gregory. I allowed you to believe I was _dead. _All for this Resistance.’ 

Finally, Greg understood. Finally, Greg got why Mycroft had been shoving him aside, why he hadn’t spoken to Greg. Why he hadn’t seemed as ecstatic to see Greg as Greg had been to see him. 

Greg shook his head, stroking Mycroft’s hand with his own, and smiling up at Mycroft as surely as he could. ‘We’re a right pair of idiots,’ he snorted. ‘I haven’t forgiven you. Not yet. But I’m getting there. I know why you did it. I know why you felt like you had to. For now, that’s good enough. _You’re _good enough. You always have been.’ 

Mycroft let out a low, gusty sigh. Greg could see his shoulders loosening, as if they had been holding up a heavy weight this whole time, and were only now shedding it. And Greg knew what it was. 

He knew it was five months of separation. Five months of worry, of sadness, of grief. And suddenly he was sure that it had been as bad for Mycroft as it had been for him. 

Sure, he hadn’t known Mycroft was alive. He had been living in grief, but at least there was the chance of moving on. At least there was an ending. But for Mycroft… he had lived every day of the last five months questioning his own choices, questioning his decisions. All the while he’d been fighting Magnussen, and fighting Culverton. Three wars, on three different fronts, all without support. 

Enough now, and time. 

‘I was worried, Mycroft,’ murmured Greg, breathing the words out over Mycroft’s lips. ‘I was so worried that it was me. That I wasn’t good enough. Because… well… compared to you I’m not really much. I’m just me. You’re a leader, Mycroft. You’re a conqueror. You’re the one who’s gonna build that new world you were speaking of. You’re the one who’s gonna make a future for us. You’re the one who can make a good world.’ 

‘In your name, my love,’ Mycroft whispered. ‘For love of you. I am eternally selfish, my dear. It has always been my greatest failing. I will only build a good, kind, merciful world for you and those I love. Not for the other people. Not for the refugees. Not even for those living in the Districts as slaves. That is why I _need _you, Gregory. I need you to remind me to be kind. You are kind beyond measure. That is what I ask of you. All I ask of you.’ 

‘It’s yours,’ Greg replied, leaning up to press their foreheads together. ‘Of course it’s yours. You only had to ask, Mycroft. Don’t push me away.’ 

‘I realise my error,’ Mycroft replied, his lids falling, his eyes darkening. ‘I realise my mistake, of course. You are my greatest ally. My greatest strength. You are not a weakness.’ 

‘I’m not,’ Greg replied, as fiercely as he could. ‘I stood my own against Magnussen for weeks. I can do the same for _Culverton Smith. _He is nothing compared to that monster who calls himself President.’ 

Mycroft didn’t reply. Instead of replying, he squeezed Greg’s hand sharply, and tilted up his jaw, pressing his lips to Greg in an explosion of light and colour behind Greg’s eyelids. 

Those familiar yet brand new lips moved over Greg’s like a revelation; a whisper of touch, feel, sound and smell that swamped Greg’s senses. How he had missed this, missed it, all of it. 

He could suddenly remember with startling clarity their last kiss on top of the Clock Tower. It felt like it was a million miles away from that damp, desperate, hot-with-blood thing.

This was just them. 

Greg wasn’t so foolish to believe they weren’t being watched. But he knew that the camera over his shoulder here, at least, wasn’t as obvious as the one in the Games. At least here he could speak his true mind without having to hope Mycroft would understand. At least here he could truly be what he needed to be. 

Mycroft’s soft lips spread under his own, a thin tongue peeking out almost shyly, sly in smoothing over the seam of Greg’s lips. Greg immediately widened his own, allowing Mycroft the entrance he had so desired. It was almost too easy to fall into it, raising his arms to wrap around Mycroft’s neck and lean in, sucking breaths in through Mycroft’s mouth. 

Long, warm arms wrapped tightly around Greg’s waist, sitting comfortably against his back, over the armoured plates on his torso and sides. The sword on his back pressed against his spine harder, even as Mycroft loomed over him, pressing him tightly against a hard chest. 

‘Perfect,’ Mycroft mumbled into Greg’s mouth, wrapping his arms tighter. ‘Perfect, utterly perfect.’ 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg groaned back, feeling the heat pooling in his lower belly. He hadn’t felt like this in five fucking months — now he couldn’t get enough. A coiled, curled spring sat in his lower belly, curling tighter and tighter and tighter until Greg couldn’t think of anything or anyone other than the man he clung to. 

But it had to come to an end. 

Mycroft ended the kiss in a soft peck, gentle and chaste, tugging Greg tighter against him and smoothing over his lips one last time, before drawing back with a sigh. 

Greg felt dizzy, somehow. He felt like the floor beneath him was spinning, and he had to cling tighter to Mycroft just to stay upright, just to stay afloat. 

‘Alright?’ Greg managed to get out, whispering the words through weak vocal cords. Above him, Mycroft had the same hazy sort of look in his eyes, the same smile playing around his lips. His slate grey eyes were dominated by wide, dark pupils, and his lids were sitting low and sultry. 

‘Never better, my dear.’ 

This moment… Greg wanted to cling to it. He wanted to hold it in his hand as tight as he could. This was something he had thought, up until a few weeks ago, was something he wouldn’t get again. He thought that had been it, the last kiss they had on top of the tower the last one they would ever have. 

Now, here, this felt more precious than a diamond, more precious than any amount of gold or money. He wanted to hold it in his hand so he could appreciate it better, appreciate its beauty and endless value, endless rarity. 

This could have just as easily not happened. This could have just as easily vanished on the wind like so much smoke. But it was here. It was here, it was precious, and Greg found he couldn’t even entertain the thought of anger. The thought of it was unbearable, at the moment. 

He knew that it would come rushing back soon — it was as inevitable as the tide. Anger and betrayal would rise again, sadness and grief would sweep over him. But for now, a seawall was erected, holding back the tide. This moment was too precious not to simply be grateful and joyful. 

Mycroft’s eyes reflected what he felt, like a deep pool of clear water in which his reflection appeared. ‘Mycroft,’ murmured Greg, ‘Do you get it now? Do you get that I’m here to stand beside you, not by anyone else? I’m here because I believe in _you.’ _

‘Thank you,’ Mycroft murmured back, his voice smooth in cadence, calm and almost unruffled. Yet the gratitude there was unmistakeable, as clear as the sky on a sunny day. 

‘So trust me,’ Greg insisted. ‘Trust me to help you. Don’t push me away.’ 

‘I do,’ said Mycroft. ‘Of course I do.’ 

‘Swear it to me,’ Greg asked of him, seriously, looking up at Mycroft as sharply as he could manage, given the circumstance. ‘Promise me that you’re not going to push me away again. Promise me that you’re going to let me stand by you. Promise me that we’re going to do this together. We’re not going to stand at odds. Swear that you’re not going to push me away.’ 

‘I swear it,’ Mycroft said, his voice stony and serious. He pulled Greg tighter against him, pressing their foreheads together. There was an almost desperate look in those slate grey eyes. ‘I swear it to the sun, moon and stars above us. I swear it on my own name. I swear it upon you, my love.’ 

‘Good,’ nodded Greg, leaning up to peck Mycroft’s lips once more. ‘Good. Because I can help.’ 

He cast a stern look at Mycroft, a smile playing around the edge of his lips. 

‘I don’t doubt it, my dear,’ said Mycroft in return, a smile curving those elegant features. 

Greg had never been more entranced by the other man. He’d never been so encapsulated. In all the times he'd seen Mycroft since Mycroft had been on the tele screen, he’d never had this look. The last time he’d seen this was on the roof in the light of the setting sun. 

Now, here it was again, in this cool, dimly lit room somewhere in a maze of a Resistance base. Here it was again, and Greg couldn’t do anythingbut watch. He couldn’t do anything but live there, in that moment, looking at that face and watching that smile form. 

He was helpless. 

So for a long moment, they simply stood there, and it was enough. For a long moment, it was enough for them to simply _be. _Greg could suddenly see the future stretching out in front of him, a future he’d thought utterly impossible, yet now so close he felt like he could almost reach out and touch it. He saw the same reflected in Mycroft’s eyes, always. 

But they had to do something. They couldn’t just stand here for the rest of the war, gazing into one another’s eyes. Greg knew that. 

So for a single moment, he just watched. 

Then, he took in a deep breath, and forced himself to step back. He didn’t drop Mycroft’s hand, winding their fingers together tightly, and clinging on as if it was the only thing tethering him to the ground. In a certain sense, it was. 

‘So tell me,’ said Greg. ‘Why are you really going into District Two? I know it’s not the reason you gave in that farce of a meeting. I know you think I’m right.’ 

‘District Eleven…’ Mycroft said, ‘District Eleven is perhaps one of the most guarded of the Districts. Disproportionate to the others, of course. For ancient reason.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Before Panem there was a different world,’ prompted Mycroft. ‘People were ranked according to their skin colour.’ 

‘Oh, right,’ nodded Greg. ‘I read about that.’ 

Mycroft hummed. ‘It does make things difficult, of course. District Eleven is purportedly the most crime-ridden District. Simply due to ancient methods of profiling. The darker your skin was, the more likely you were to commit a crime. The people who first made Panem put them all into one District. To make them easier to control. Even to this day it is mandated that District Eleven have near triple the Peacekeeper guard than other Districts.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘I know it’s hard. But I want… I need to help them. They’re suffering, Mycroft. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? It’s about helping people who are suffering. If we want to build a kind world, Mycroft, we have to start now. By being kind. No matter if it costs us.’ 

‘I know,’ Mycroft murmured, bowing his head. ‘But I have a plan. I need District Two first. And there is an easier way to get it, I think.’ 

‘What easier way?’ 

Mycroft shook his head. ‘Not now,’ he murmured. ‘For now… I am tired. As, I know, you are.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘You’re going to tell me,’ he said to Mycroft, standing his ground. ‘It’s okay if you can’t tell me now. But you are going to tell me before you put this plan into action, alright?’ 

‘You are an integral part of it, Gregory,’ Mycroft replied, lifting Greg’s hand and pressing it between two of his own, long-fingered ones. ‘I swore it to you. It is not a vow I take lightly.’ 

Greg smiled, and looked at their hands, leaning forwards to press a kiss to the smooth knuckles. ‘I trust you,’ he said, ‘More than anyone.’ 

When he looked up, there was such an expression of gratitude on Mycroft’s face he could hardly believe it. For the first time, though, he also noticed the bags under Mycroft’s eyes, the slight trembling in those hands. 

‘Come on,’ Greg murmured. ‘Let’s go find a spot to sleep, yeah?’ 

Mycroft nodded, clasping their hands together at his side, and smiling, tiredly. ‘You are correct,’ he said. ‘I am extraordinarily tired.’ 

‘I know, love,’ Greg replied, squeezing their hands again. ‘You’ve been going for _months, _haven’t you?’ 

Mycroft didn’t reply, just began to slowly walk from the room. The doors opened, then closed behind them, as they drifted down the corridors. Night had fallen, Greg realised. The Silo was quiet, and the lights had been dimmed. Not many people were wandering around; only a few guards and refugees. A few nurses hurried between doors in the medical bay. 

They drifted through the corridors, Greg vaguely following after Mycroft. He felt like he was in a bit of a haze. 

He hadn’t tried to imagine what it would be like. He hadn’t tried to even dream of what it would feel like to see Mycroft for the first time since his resurrection. But he had thought that he would feel this warm sensation. 

He hadn’t known it would start off so rocky. He hadn’t been as worried as he should have been about the roiling sea that had greeted him. But now he knew what he had been expecting all along. 

This soft night, the dim lights, the feeling of Mycroft’s hand, warm and real in his own. The heat pooling in his belly. 

That was enough.

‘Time to come in from the cold,’ Greg murmured, leaning into Mycroft’s shoulder. 

For a moment, he felt like a stealthy lover, stealing moments with his loved one under the moonlight. He pressed his lips to Mycroft’s fabric covered shoulder, as they drifted through the halls. 


	19. Descendant

Greg woke in a position he’d only dreamed of; Mycroft’s arm over his shoulder, heavy and warm, Mycroft’s chest under his cheek. Under his ear, Mycroft’s heart was beating slowly and steadily, the bare skin of Mycroft’s chest hot. 

Keeping his eyes closed, Greg ran a gentle hand up Mycroft’s bare torso to touch against the side of Mycroft’s neck. The quiet of the morning seeped in through his ears. Vaguely, he could hear the sound of movement outside, but it felt like it was a world away. Right now, it was just him and Mycroft, in their own little world. It was a magical feeling. 

Last night, after the conference room, Mycroft had led him through a maze of corridors and walkways, all the way up to a high floor. He had been led to what he had assumed were Mycroft’s own personal quarters, pleasant and calm, quiet and dark. Without turning on any lights, Mycroft had led him to bed. 

They hadn’t had sex, no matter how much Greg might have wanted it at the time. All they did, all Mycroft seemed to have the energy for, was stripping Greg of his armour, and then helping Greg to take of his own penguin suit. Then, just curling together, naked under the covers, taking comfort in one another’s presence. 

It had cemented for Greg exactly how hard the last five months had been for Mycroft. He knew that Mycroft still was hiding things. He knew Mycroft still had a wall up, a guarded look around his eyes that Greg couldn’t see behind. But finally…. finally their relationship was back in sync. He finally knew where he stood with Mycroft. 

Since arriving at the Silo it had felt like a bit of a rollercoaster. He had been brushed off, rejected by Mycroft so harshly that it had confused Greg. He couldn’t reconcile the image of Mycroft he had, the memories of Mycroft’s warmth and presence in the Games, with the suddenly cold General he’d been greeted with. 

Now he could see it again. Now he knew. 

Mycroft had changed. There was a scar, a rough scar in the centre of Mycroft’s chest, still angry and slightly raw, a deep red in colour, that belied the truth.

Greg cracked his eyes open, just to look at the dappled pattern on Mycroft’s chest. He couldn’t resist stroking his hand down, placing his palm over the wound on that pale skin. It was raw, and angry-looking. Greg knew, when Mycroft had first stripped his shirt from his shoulders, there would be something there. 

He had expected it to heal a little quicker, though. 

It hadn’t. It looked quite fresh still, somehow. It looked as though a strong breeze would push it open again, and then Mycroft’s lifeblood would leak down over that pale skin. 

That was a hard thought. 

If he closed his eyes, Greg could remember the sight of the blood, the sight of the knife sticking out of Mycroft’s chest like an awful growth. He had hated it more than anything, in that moment. The sight of all that red, all that blood, bursting out and spilling between Greg’s fingers. 

Involuntarily, Greg shuddered, and pushed himself closer into Mycroft’s shoulder. 

Mycroft hummed, tightening his arm around Greg’s shoulders. Greg turned his head up, looking at Mycroft’s profile in the dim light. It seemed softer around the edges somehow, in the dawn light. In sleep, Mycroft was softer, his forehead no longer creasing, his eyes closed and long lashes brushing over his high cheekbones. 

That tiny crease between his eyebrows was gone, his terse lips smoothed out in dreaming. Greg couldn’t resist, suddenly, stroking a hand over Mycroft’s jawline, gently. 

Again, Mycroft hummed, his eyes fluttering. Greg smiled, at peace, leaning up to nudge his nose against Mycroft’s jaw. Like a thing of beauty, Mycroft awoke, coming to life before Greg’s eyes. It was a miracle in and of itself. 

Mycroft’s slate eyes were hazy in the first moments of wakefulness, blinking and rolling, his lips widening in a soft yawn. A moment later, he rolled his head over to look at Greg, his eyes immediately brightening and hislips twitching at the corners in a hazy imitation of a smile. Greg couldn’t help but smile back, stroking fingers over Mycroft’s jaw. 

For a moment, that was enough. For a moment, it was enough for them to just be here, together, their bare legs wound through one another’s, their skin pressed together as much as it possibly could be. 

But his hand kept catching on that scar. In the darkness, it had looked better; pale and blending better into the pallor of Mycroft’s marble-like skin. But now in the pale light of the dawn, it was red and angry, standing out like a beacon in the centre of Mycroft’s chest. 

It was an ugly, stark reminder of what Mycroft had done. 

Greg couldn’t help but look away from those slate eyes, look back down at the scar and feel a well of those confusing, mixed emotions he’d been trying so hard to push away, trying to hard to shove down so he could just live in the moment. It wasn’t going to work for much longer. He knew that. He was going to have to do something to work through it all eventually. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg murmured, unable to look up at Mycroft’s face. ‘What was it like? Doing that to yourself, I mean.’ 

Mycroft let out a low, gusty sigh, the feel of the cool air of his breath sweeping over Greg. It was a strange sensation to say the least. There was what felt like an eternity of silence. Greg could feel that Mycroft was trying hard to find the right words. He was trying hard to think of a way to put it. Greg could practically hear the gears turning in that brilliant mind. 

‘It felt as if I was doing the right thing,’ Mycroft said, finally, his hand stilling on Greg’s back. 

‘For who?’ 

‘You,’ replied Mycroft. 

Greg couldn’t bear that answer. He couldn’t. It made his head spin, his mind swirl into a confusing mix of different things he couldn’t quite name.

Rolling out of Mycroft’s arms, Greg sat upright, folding his legs underneath him, and rubbing a hand over his face. ‘It’s hard, Mycroft,’ he murmured. ‘It’s so hard to forgive. I… I was so… _sad,_ Mycroft. It was like you had reached into my chest and taken out my heart then taken it away to wherever you went, and you didn’t give it back. It… it _hurt.’ _

The sheer pain of it washed over Greg, for a moment. The guilt over his own survival; what right did he have to survive? That had been a question he’d struggled with for a long time. Why did he get to live when everyone else died? Why did he get to live while _Mycroft _was dead? That hadn’t seemed fair. 

And the pain and misery. It had haunted him for so long, following him around, creeping it’s long, shadowy fingers deep into Greg’s head. The feeling of hot blood spilling through Greg’s fingers, the moment where Mycroft’s eyes went blank, the sound of that dagger cutting through flesh. It wasn’t easy to think about. 

Behind him, Mycroft remained still, his eyes staring up at the ceiling, his body entirely unmoving. Greg couldn’t help but glance back, look at Mycroft’s still, statue-like body. 

‘Say something, Mycroft,’ pleaded Greg, his voice quiet and desperate. ‘Please.’ 

‘I do not know what to say, Gregory,’ murmured Mycroft, his voice smooth and rich. ‘Other than I am deeply sorry. I am so deeply sorry for all the hurt I caused you. I would like for you to know that I understand.

‘I spent the entirety of the five months while I was, so to speak, dead, wishing to be able to be by your side. To hold you hand. I wished more than anything that I could be there. But I had a duty to do first.’ 

‘I know,’ Greg shrugged. ‘It’s the only reason I can consider forgiving you. I’m being selfish in being angry, I kn—‘ 

‘—No,’ insisted Mycroft, finally sitting up and resting a hand over Greg’s, where they were slumped in his own lap. ‘You are right to be angry. Were I in your shoes, I would be angry, frustrated, outraged. Certainly, I would not forgive myself. I cannot forgive myself.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘I know why you did it,’ he murmured. ‘It was genius, really. You had the time you needed and the security to build all this up.’ 

‘I was not the one to build up the Silo to what it is today,’ Mycroft said, shaking his head softly, looking up at Greg from under coppery lashes. ‘I simply inherited a role, shall I say.’ 

Greg smiled, tightly. ‘You’re the right person,’ he nodded, decisively. ‘I know that. You know that. Everyone knows that. I just… I need to get over it.’ 

‘I am ready when you are,’ replied Mycroft. ‘I would wait for the rest of our lives if you asked it of me.’ 

‘I’ll forgive you,’ Greg nodded, decisively, knowing himself well enough to say that. ‘I will. I’ll forgive you, it might not happen tomorrow, but it will happen, okay, Mycroft?’ 

Mycroft nodded. 

‘But until then… I’m going to have issues. It’s not going to stop me from standing by your side. It’s not going to stop me from being the Silver Knight. But I’m going to have some issues to work through.’ 

‘I accept that,’ Mycroft nodded, leaning forwards slowly into Greg’s space, but leaving Greg to make the decision as to how far he wanted to take it. An immense wave of gratitude washed over Greg. 

Gently, he leaned forwards and pecked Mycroft’s lips chastely. ‘Thank you,’ Greg murmured, into Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft’s lips he could feel twitching at the corners. 

Leaning back, Greg looked up into Mycroft’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, too. For my issues, I mean.’ 

Mycroft shook his head. ‘I have my own problems that I must face. Challenges I must overcome if I am to succeed. The wound still pains me to this day.’

Greg let out a low sigh, bringing up his hand to brush over Mycroft’s chest, right over where the rough scar tissue was beginning to form in the centre. ‘I’m sorry,’ Greg repeated, again. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I know… I can’t even imagine what that would’ve felt like.’ 

Looking away, Mycroft slowly raised a hand and held it over Greg’s on the centre of his chest. ‘I aimed it exactly and precisely,’ he murmured. ‘I did not damage any major arteries. The blade had to be surgical. But I succeeded. That is what matters most. It was the right thing to do, for the plan.’ 

‘I wish we could’ve saved those other kids,’ Greg murmured. ‘I wish I could’ve saved Suzie.’ 

Mycroft let out a low, gusty sigh. ‘As do I, my love,’ he murmured. ‘As do I. But I could not think of a way. I am sorry.’ 

‘You’ve got nothing to apologise for,’ said Greg, darkly. ‘We’re going to beat them. We’re going to beat Magnussen. Then there aren’t going to be any more Games. There aren’t going to be any more kids forced into an Arena like that and made to hunt one another down. It’s as simple as that.’ 

Mycroft was frozen under Greg’s fingertips. Greg raised a hand, resting it on Mycroft’s jaw and turning his face to look into Greg’s eyes, again. His slate eyes were slightly hazy around the edges, but at Greg’s stare, they snapped back to his face. Mycroft nodded, sharply. ‘No,’ he said, ‘There won’t be. I will ensure it.’ 

‘Good,’ nodded Greg. ‘Once Magnussen’s gone, it’ll be better. No more Reapings, no more fear…’ 

Smiling, Greg leaned forwards and pressed their foreheads together. 

‘I have planing to do this morning,’ murmured Mycroft, raising an arm to tentatively wrap around Greg’s waist. Greg smiled, encouragingly. ‘Meetings… Smallwood…’ 

‘Fuck that,’ Greg bit out, harshly. ‘Just a bit longer, yeah?’ 

Mycroft looked hesitant, for just a moment, before he nodded, slowly. 

‘Good,’ murmured Greg, pushing Mycroft back down into the small, slightly worn, slightly hard pillows. He leaned down, resuming his spot with his head pressed to Mycroft’s chest, his hand tugging the thick cover back over their bare forms. ‘Just a bit longer.’ 

***

Sally didn’t know what time it was when she woke up. It was extremely hard to gauge time down here. But she knew that it was quite early. She’d gone to sleep as soon as it was obvious that Greg wasn’t coming back, especially if what she’d hoped for had happened. 

When she sat up, she could see that Maya was still asleep, curled under the covers of her own small bed, her form gentle and curved in sleep. Her honey locks were sprayed out over the pillows in a bright halo, her soft, pale hands curled by her delicate features. She was almost fae-like in the soft light filtering down from the overhead lights. All her features were delicate, somehow. 

Slowly, Sally slid over towards her, collapsing to the concrete beside her girlfriend and stroking a hand over one of Maya’s pale ones. 

Maya wasn’t asleep. 

Slowly, those beautiful, pale eyes opened and looked at Sally. They were still hazy with sleep, but Sally could see around the corners of them there was something there. Something almost sad, really. 

‘Are you okay?’ Sally whispered, leaning towards her so as not to wake the others. Molly hadn’t gotten back from the medical bay until quite late — Sally knew she had been asleep longer before Molly had returned. Sam, Lottie and Alex had tired themselves out, and John was curled up in his corner bed, leaning against the wall, his head pressed against another young boy with curly hair. 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Maya, her voice throaty. 

‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Sally, reaching up to stroke a hand over those gorgeous, honeyed locks. ‘I’m so sorry, Maya. I don’t know… Mycroft and Greg… it’s reminded me that I haven’t been paying attention to you lately. Not enough, anyway.’ 

‘You’ve been busy,’ sighed Maya, her eyelids drooping. ‘It’s kinda hot, actually, seeing you dressed up like a soldier.’ 

‘You don’t have to—‘

‘I’m not as mad as you think I am, Sal,’ said Maya, interrupting her. Maya slid over then, a little, on the low cot, stroking the space beside her. These cots were tiny and narrow, not really designed for two people. But Sally couldn’t pass up this opportunity. Quietly as she could, she slipped under the covers, stroking a hand over Maya’s soft curves, all the way down her arm to clasp their hands together. ‘It sucks when you’re not here. And it’s hard trying to take care of Alex and Lottie when you’re not around. But when you are here — you’re so full of _purpose, _Sal, it’s worth it.

‘All the time I’ve know you you’ve been full of all this pent up energy and anger. You were rattling with it. Now… now you have something to do. Now you’ve got a purpose, Sal. I love you now more than I ever have.’ 

Sally couldn’t help the smile that broke over her face. ‘I love you too, Maya. That’s the only reason I’m doing any of this. Cause I want us to have a world that’s good and right, so you don’t have to worry about our kids.’

Maya grinned. ‘You want kids with me?’

‘Course,’ shrugged Sally. ‘I thought you knew?’ 

Maya shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to talk about it with you cause I know you hate the world like it is. You once told me that you didn’t want to have kids in the world we live in. You don’t want to have to worry about them going hungry, them not having enough, or them being reaped. So I just thought—‘

‘But we’re not going to live like that anymore,’ Sally nodded, ‘We aren’t, I promise.’ 

‘Okay,’ nodded Maya, leaning in and pressing their foreheads together, quietly. ‘I believe you. I believe in you. And I believe in Mycroft, cause I know you believe in him.’ 

‘Good,’ Sally said, squeezing Maya’s hand. 

There was a beat of comfortable silence. 

‘I don’t want to ruin the moment,’ said Sally, ‘But I do also want to just let you know… I think Mycroft’s going to try and infiltrate District Two. I overheard him talking to Anthea about it a couple of days ago.’ 

‘You think he’s gonna ask you to go with him?’ 

‘I don’t think he’s going to do it himself. But I am going to volunteer to go, yeah. Because I think he’s gonna ask Greg to go.’ 

‘I see,’ said Maya, her voice soft. ‘I support you, then. You should go. Greg’s like your brother, Sal. You need to help him.’ 

Sally sighed. ‘I’m worried about Greg,’ she confessed, quietly. ‘I really am. I don’t know how he’s feeling. I know… I know he’s not quite right. Not since the Capitol.’ 

‘Can you really blame him?’ snorted Maya. ‘I can’t even imagine what it would’ve been like, there.’ 

‘Neither can I,’ said Sally, darkly. ‘But I don’t think it was nice.’

There was another moment of silence. 

‘The reason I’m bringing it up is because if I go I don’t know how long it’s gonna take. I don’t know how long we’re gonna be away. It could be a couple of days, or a couple of weeks. Or even a month,’ she murmured. ‘Are you okay to take care of Alex and Lottie? Molly’s already said she’ll help.’ 

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Maya, softly. ‘Of course I can, Sal, it’s the least I can do.’ 

Sally couldn’t say anything, she could only lean forwards and peck Maya on the lips, hoping her gratefulness shone through. Maya smiled under the touch of their lips, quiet and soft. 

***

A little later on, Greg and Mycroft strode back through the doors to the hangar, walking towards Sally with purpose. Greg was wearing a stunning outfit of silver armour, smooth and solid, shining in the light. As he walked through the hangar, people were openly staring at him, reaching out for him just as they had done the previous day, when he first got here. 

Sally watched, a smile twitching her lips, as her friend reached out to all the people around him, smiling and stopping every so often to chat, to shake hands. He was every bit the Silver Knight he had protested being, every bit the hero they needed him to be. It was almost astonishing to see how naturally Greg fit into it. 

She knew he wasn’t even trying. She knew he wasn’t doing anything he wouldn’t normally. He just simply didn’t see the incredible impact it had on everyone. The simple gift of his smile was enough to lift the spirits of a dozen people, give hope life in a dozen hearts. 

She could almost believe he was going to be enough to win the war. 

Beside him, Mycroft had a small smile on those regal features. His grey eyes were sparkling as they watched Greg, undisguised adoration beaming through. It was something Sally had never seen on Mycroft’s face, in the few weeks she’d known him. 

It struck a chord in Sally, suddenly. Mycroft was like an ice statue that had melted into warm spring water, lovely and shining in the light Greg had practically pouring off him. She could see even from this distance their hands, clasped together in a show of unity, a stand that she could get behind with everything in her. 

‘Greggy!’ Sally called out to him, waving a black gloved hand. She had just finished fitting the last parts of her armoured uniform onto her body, her gun holstered at her side. ‘Over here!’ 

Greg waved back, raising a hand in greeting to her and smiling a wide smile. Closer now, Sally could see the weight on Greg’s shoulders, while not gone, had certainly seemed to lighten up. He was standing taller, somehow, his face more open, the dark circles entirely gone. It was incredible to see, really. 

‘Sal!’ Greg grinned, reaching for her and wrapping a friendly arm over her shoulder, dropping Mycroft’s hand in the process. ‘How are you?’ 

‘Fine, Mr Cheerful,’ Sally sniped back, nudging Greg in the side before looking over at Mycroft. Mycroft himself was also standing tall, the same weight seemingly lifted from his shoulders. He too looked like he had had a full night’s sleep, restful and nightmare-free. For a dark moment, Sally was exceedingly jealous. 

But she couldn’t begrudge them this. 

She could see it written over Greg’s face exactly how ecstatic he was. How happy he was that finally, finally he had Mycroft back. Sally knew intimately what it had been like before. How far away Greg had seemed, how hard she had tried to reach out for him, and how she had failed. Now… now it was almost like she had the Greg back from before the Games. It was a sudden change, yet a long time coming, in her opinion. 

As she watched, Greg reached out a hand for Mycroft, winding their fingertips together, briefly. It looked almost unconscious, as Greg was still grinning at her and nudging her side. Yet she noticed out of the corner of her eye a strange shock on Mycroft’s face as it happened, as if he wasn’t quite expecting it to. 

She grinned, quietly, to herself. 

‘What’re you smirking about, trouble?’ asked Greg, nudging her in the side again. 

‘Nothing,’ Sally replied, with a laugh. ‘Come on, I wanna show you something. You too, Holmes.’ 

Untangling herself from Greg’s side, she gestured over to the wall where Sherlock and John sat, their heads together, their little voices clearly quietly scheming together. 

Greg threw his head back and laughed, turning to Mycroft. ‘Our worst nightmares have come true,’ he teased. 

‘It rather seems that way, does it not?’ replied Mycroft, a small smile opening those noble features. ‘The world is doomed. All my work has been for nothing. Those two tiny tyrants shall take over and we shall all be slaves to their regime.’ 

‘Bees and mischief don’t seem quite that bad of a fate, My,’ Greg said, cheerfully. 

Sally shook her head. ‘They’ve already both conspired to try and steal my gun multiple times. And I know for a fact they have hidden Charlotte’s pencil somewhere. She was so upset about it.’ 

Greg tutted. ‘I’ll have a chat to John. Make him give it back.’ 

‘I shall request my brother return your sister’s pencil,’ said Mycroft, formally, his eyes twinkling. ‘However, I do not like my chances.’ 

Sally waved a hand, dismissively. ‘I found her another one, it’s not a big deal. But I do recall her telling me that they said they’d only give it back to her if she managed to solve Sherlock’s puzzle.’ 

‘Ah,’ Mycroft said, looking at the floor. ‘I see.’ 

‘She couldn’t figure it out, of course,’ Sally grinned. ‘But I think she’s pretty much forgotten, now.’ 

‘Silver lining, I guess,’ Greg shrugged. ‘So you guys are alright then? I felt bad abandoning you like that yesterday morning.’ 

‘I made you,’ Sally snorted, again. ‘I specifically remember the words “go get ‘im, tiger” being mentioned.’ 

‘Funny that,’ Greg laughed. ‘So do I.’ 

Both of them burst out into peals of laughter. Mycroft just looked a little nonplussed beside Greg, yet his slate grey eyes still slightly wide around the edges in a strange sort of wonder. 

‘Gregory,’ said Mycroft, a moment later. ‘We do have a meeting to get to I’m afraid. Anthea has just sent me a message to remind me.’ 

‘Of course,’ Greg nodded, still a little breathless from laughter. ‘Sorry Sal, I have to go to this. I’ll fill you in later, okay?’ 

‘Go, go!’ insisted Sally, tapping Greg on the shoulder. ‘Thanks for checking up on me. You might wanna say hi to John though, before you rush off.’ 

‘Course, course,’ Greg nodded. He let go of Mycroft’s hand, then, again unconsciously, stepping around the low camper beds to tap John on the shoulder. 

John flew into Greg’s arms, and Sally couldn’t help but smile softly, glancing at Mycroft to see a similar smile. 

‘So,’ she murmured, sidling over to him, and nudging him in the side. ‘You work out your issues?’ 

‘Not quite,’ replied Mycroft, ‘But we will get there. Soon.’ 

‘Okay,’ nodded Sally. ‘Which reminds me, I’m still a bit pissed at you about all that grief you put him through. But I get why you did it. Also, I’m not stupidly in love with you, so that makes it easier to forgive. I know it was the most logical decision. You’re nothing if not logical, Holmes.’ 

‘Thank you,’ nodded Mycroft, looking at her with gratitude. 

‘Can you tell me anything about this meeting?’ 

Immediately, Mycroft’s eyes darkened. ‘I am concerned,’ he said. ‘There are certain issues of inheritance that I think are going to be brought up.’ 

‘You’re sending him into District Two, aren’t you?’ Sally muttered. Mycroft looked at her, his eyes narrowed. 

‘I don’t think I will have a choice in the matter,’ he replied. ‘I am not the leader of this Resistance.’ 

‘You are,’ Sally nodded, decisively. ‘In everything but name.’ 

‘Name is what truly matters here, Sally, I’m afraid.’ 

‘Fuck that,’ Sally said. ‘Greg’s by you. So I’m by you. But I do want to go with him to District Two. If you send him there.’ 

‘I will see what I can do,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘I will say this, however. Certain issues shall be brought up shortly. Issues of descent and inheritance. I am afraid that I must savour this little time I have at Gregory’s side. It may not last long.’ 

That was cryptic. Sally looked down, shuffling her feet. 

‘I can’t make any promises as to what Greg’s gonna think. But he’s more forgiving than you think, you know.’ 

Mycroft smiled at her, grateful yet somehow a little sad. ‘One can only hope.’ 

‘You ready to go?’ asked Greg, his voice loud, as he stepped back through the cots. Behind him, Sherlock and John had already vanished back into the bowels of the hangar, off to make more mischief, no doubt.

‘I am, my dear,’ replied Mycroft, a small smile already forming at the sight of Greg. ‘Sally, I will see you soon, I believe.’ 

‘Sure,’ replied Sally. ‘Laters Greggy.’ 

Greg grinned, and ruffled her hair, before walking off with Mycroft, back out of the hangar. 

All Sally could do now was wait. 

***

The meeting room was far brighter now in the light of the day than it had been the night before. However just like the night before, both Smallwood and Culverton were waiting around the table. Beside him, he could feel how Mycroft tensed up when he saw that Culverton had taken his place at the head of the large, oval table, his small face arched in a smirk of triumph. 

‘Good morning,’ Greg said, cheerfully, letting a smile crease his face. Culverton’s smile faltered, for a moment, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the united front that he and Mycroft were presenting. Greg grinned even wider at that, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. 

‘Commander Smallwood, Commander Smith,’ nodded Mycroft, walking over to take his place at the other end of the table, directly across from Culverton. Greg followed behind, dragging the chair from a cross from Smallwood to sit far closer to Mycroft, offering his partner a soft smile. Mycroft in turn smiled back, gratitude shining in those slate eyes at Greg’s show of unity. 

‘Good morning, General Holmes. Silver Knight,’ said Culverton, nodding his own head. ‘I trust that you slept well?’ 

‘Indeed,’ replied Mycroft, curtly. ‘I have also completed my initial draft and proposal for the infiltration of District Two.’ 

‘Excellent,’ Smallwood said, placing her hands not eh oval table in front of her. At the other end, Culverton stood, as Greg watched, his small stout body wandering over to the large window and looking out, hands folded behind his back. 

Snapping his eyes back to Mycroft, he saw a small flicker of annoyance, quickly tamped down. 

‘Let us hear it then,’ prompted Smallwood, her voice soft and cool. 

‘District Two has a wealth of resources,’ began Mycroft, sliding a data pad across the glass at tapping it twice. It lit up, a massive hologram forming in the shape of what Greg assumed was District Two. ‘Additionally, as you know, it is where the Peacekeepers are trained, so there is an abundance of weapons. Weapons we will need. However, we need to get inside, because the real treasure of District Two is not its resources, no.’ 

Greg looked over at Mycroft, there was a steely focus and resolve int hose eyes, as Mycroft got to his feet and indicated where the Peacekeeper training facility was. 

‘The trust treasure of District Two is in fact the Peacekeepers themselves. These Peacekeepers are young, but trained. They are not indoctrinated into the Capitol’s service quite yet — hence they will be able to be convinced by a strong argument, and the right name. The right heritage.’ 

‘So you have informed the Silver Knight then,’ Culverton, said, suddenly, turning around and smiling down the table. Greg watched Mycroft’s features twitch, again. Greg cleared his throat. 

‘Mycroft has asked me to go into District Two, yes,’ Greg replied. 

Apparently that was the wrong answer. Mycroft’s features twitched, again. At the other end of the table, Culverton’s features split into a wide, almost ecstatic smile. Across from him, Smallwood’s small, watery eyes locked onto his, as she cocked her head to the side. 

‘I see,’ said Smallwood, tersely. 

‘Indeed,’ hummed Culverton, his voice trembling with laughter. Greg felt the bubble of frustration build in his bones, the sudden feeling of rage rumbling up his spine. Culverton was now openly giggling, a horrid sound he made into his fist. 

‘I have not yet informed him,’ murmured Mycroft. 

Slowly, Mycroft turned to look at Greg, his slate grey eyes sad. ‘I do apologise, Gregory, I did not intentionally keep you misinformed.’ 

‘What is it?’ asked Greg. ‘What aren’t you telling me, My?’ 

‘He hasn’t told you who your father was,’ murmured Smallwood. Culverton’s shoulders were still trembling with laughter, and suddenly Greg wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold Culverton down, make him stop that horrid sound. 

‘Your father,’ said Mycroft, ‘Was a Peacekeeper.’ 

‘I know that,’ Greg said, rolling his eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. What has that got to do with anything?’ 

‘He was a legend,’ murmured Mycroft, almost reluctantly. ‘He was the Commander of the Peacekeepers, in his fay. The Leader, so to speak. Then he fell in love with your mother.

‘Your mother was one of us.’ 

Greg felt the blood drain from his face. 

‘Galen Lestrade came to our side. He led a thousand Peacekeepers to the Resistance, along with thousands of weapons and armour. Before him, the Resistance was just a small group, hiding out here in the Silo. But after him… it became this,’ Mycroft gestured around himself, with wide hands. ‘He died a hero, attempting to liberate District Ten. It didn’t go to plan. He died.;’ 

‘I know he died,’ murmured Greg, ‘But I didn’t know he was with you guys. I just… I always thought he was just a farmer. An unlucky farmer. Bit like me, really.’ 

‘He was,’ said Smallwood, softly, ‘He was like you. Perhaps not as kind.’ 

‘You knew my father?’ asked Greg, eyes wide. 

‘I did,’ replied Smallwood. ‘He was a great man.’ 

‘But why does it matter?’ asked Greg, turning to look at Mycroft. Mycroft was staring down at his hands, his eyes dark. 

Instead Mycroft speaking, Culverton spoke from his relaxed position at the head of the table, leaning back in his seat, a smile of triumph creasing his features. ‘Galen Lestrade is still a legend amongst training Peacekeepers. Real Peacekeepers; the ones out in the field I mean, are indoctrinated and brainwashed beyond repair. But the trainees… they are a different story. 

‘Additionally, Galen Lestrade set up a back entrance into District Two. But it can only be accessed by someone with his genes. Or, in your case, similar enough genes that you’ll be recognised as him. You can see, of course, how perfect this has all been,’ laughed Culverton, spreading his hands. ‘We had no idea where you were. You vanished into District Ten after your father died. We had searched, of course, but we’d never hoped to find you. 

‘Then out of the blue, you show up, volunteering, with your silver hair just like your father before you, the same eyes and skin colour… everything, really. You go into the same Games as our dear General Holmes over there,’ Greg cast a look at Mycroft. Mycroft was still glaring down at the table. 

Greg looked up at Culverton. Culverton’s beady eyes were piercing, staring not at him, but at Mycroft. He had a small, vicious smile on his face. ‘Of course, it was even more perfect when you _fell _for General Holmes. Of all people, you chose him! And Holmes’ plans… well… they simply had to be modified. Galen Lestrade’s son, think of the opportunity.’ 

A rise of nausea bubbled in Greg’s chest. Greg looked over at Mycroft, who was now looking up at him. Those slate eyes were roiling like the ocean on a stormy day. Greg could see that his hands were clenched so tightly his skin was white, his knuckles pale. 

And he knew what he was going to have to do next. 

He could see what Culverton was trying to do. He wasn’t blind, and he wasn’t stupid. He could have a crisis later. For now, Mycroft needed him. 

Slowly, Greg inched his hand over the table, taking one of Mycroft’s hands and folding it into his own. Greg stood, with a smile, prompting Mycroft to do the same. 

Mycroft’s hand was slack in his own, his grey eyes wide with shock, and something else. 

‘Well that was lucky, wasn’t it, My?’ Greg asked, grinning, prompting Mycroft with a squeeze of their hands. 

‘Indeed,’ said Mycroft, slightly choked. ‘Quite lucky.’ 

At the other end of the table, the smile had fallen from Culverton’s face. His features were contorted into a strange imitation of shock, his relaxed posture fading to tensed shoulders and piercing, beady eyes. 

‘I never knew my father,’ said Greg, ‘And I never really knew what he was like. But you seem to have both known him well. When you have the chance, I’d love to hear about him. 

‘When I went missing as you said, I ended up on the streets of District Ten’s main town. It was hard, but I eventually built a life for myself. You don’t need to worry about that.’

Greg grinned, enjoying how taken off guard both Mycroft and Culverton seemed to be. 

‘I’d of course be happy to go into District Two. Any way I can help, I’d love to. Is that everything for this morning?’ 

‘I… I believe so,’ stammered Smallwood, tapping her hands on the glass table. 

‘Good,’ nodded Greg, turning and tugging Mycroft out of the room behind him. The doors slid shut immediately, and Greg dropped Mycroft’s hand, and walked straight for the nearest cupboard, going straight inside. 

Mycroft followed him, a little hesitantly. 

‘Well?’ asked Greg, folding his arms over his chest. 

‘Who your father was didn’t matter when I first met you,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘It was something I realised later on, and by that point I’d already changed my plans for you.’ 

‘Before you realised who my dad was?’ asked Greg, his voice soft and a little worried. He’d tried hard not to let it affect him, back in the room, but now… now he couldn’t help but worry just a little. 

Mycroft shook his head, his eyes sad. Slowly, ever so slowly as if Greg was an easily startled animal, Mycroft wrapped an arm around his waist, stroking a hand over his jaw. ‘You,’ he murmured. ‘It was always you.’ 

Greg looked up into those slate grey eyes, entirely trusting. 


	20. Peacekeeper

Anthea silently handed him a white Peacekeeper outfit, her eyes narrowed. Greg tried to smile at her, but couldn’t help the swirl of nerves in his stomach. It was almost a sense of deja vu; being handed an outfit and expected to survive. 

‘Are you okay to do this?’ asked Anthea, raising an eyebrow. 

‘Yeah,’ nodded Greg. ‘I have to be, ya know?’ 

‘You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,’ said Mycroft, his voice low and dark, across the other side of the room. 

They were all gathered in a small supply room, cupboards surrounding them and shelves filled with various bits and pieces of armour. Mycroft was standing by the far wall, watching Greg and Anthea with low brows, his lips terse. 

Greg shrugged. ‘You asked me to.’ 

‘That does not mean you have to do it, Gregory,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘I will not let you go if you do not want to. If you think that you will be in an unacceptable risk.’ 

‘It’s gonna be risky,’ said Greg, shaking his head, and taking the helmet that Anthea was holding out to him. ‘But someone has to do it. Better that it’s me than someone else. And like you said — they might listen to me cause of who my dad was.’ 

‘We are sure,’ Anthea cut in. ‘We have former trainee Peacekeepers in the Silo who defected after hearing about Galen Lestrade.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Greg. ‘Wouldn’t they have done everything they can to erase any memory of my dad?’ 

‘Indeed,’ said Mycroft. ‘However Peacekeeper training works in two stages; the initial training, and then the brainwashing. They found they could not effectively create soldiers by training them after the brainwashing, as they lost the capability to learn new skills afterwards.’ 

There was a beat of silence. 

Greg couldn’t imagine what this so-called _brainwashing _involved. He’d known Peacekeepers back in District Ten. They’d been nice enough to him, but at the same time a little vacant. They were brutal, too, in their own way. The kind of brutality that didn’t really stem from hatred, but brutality from lack of understanding. 

It had always been a bit strange. They’d always been so far removed from him. Greg had made a couple of friends amongst the Peacekeepers, but they did seem to come and go a lot. They would leave, and never come back. 

‘I met Peacekeepers,’ said Greg, his voice quiet. ‘Back in the District. They didn’t know my father. But… they were a little strange. Almost as if they were always constantly in a slight trance.’ 

Anthea nodded. ‘That sounds about right. We don’t really know much about what happens to Peacekeepers in the Capitol. We only know they’re taken to some sort of underground facility, and when they come out they’re not the…’ 

Suddenly, Anthea fell silent, looking down at her feet, her fingers twitching. Greg frowned, and stepped forwards. ‘Are you okay, Anthea?’ 

Anthea shook her head. ‘I’ll tell you about it some other time.’ 

Greg looked over at Mycroft, as Anthea breezed past him, and out the door, with a flick of her mane of dark hair. Mycroft was looking after her, his lips terse, and his brows low over his eyes. ‘What was that about?’ 

‘It is not my story to tell,’ murmured Mycroft, stepping forwards slowly to wrap an arm around Greg’s waist. Smiling, Greg leant into him, resting his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder, the Peacekeeper outfit and helmet dropping from his hands to bounce on the concrete floor. 

Looking up into Mycroft’s grey eyes, Greg felt not for the first time a flicker of hesitancy. It would be so much easier just to stay here, to stay in this little corner and not come out. It would be easier just to let the rest of the war pass them by, and live their lives, just like he’d dreamed of back in the Arena. 

‘Soon,’ murmured Mycroft, leaning down to press their foreheads together. Greg wrapped his own hands around Mycroft’s upper arms, smiling up at his partner. It was as if Mycroft thad read his thoughts. 

He probably had. 

‘I know,’ Greg nodded. ‘Soon, you’ll win this war. Soon, we’ll be able to go back to my little house in District Ten and live in a free world.’

Shrugging, Greg looked down for a moment. ‘I suppose, not much will really change for me. I’ll still just live in my little house with John. But you’ll be there, won’t you?’ 

Mycroft sighed. ‘I am not entirely sure what is going to happen. Afterwards, I mean. It is difficult to say how our lives will pan out.’ 

Greg smiled, tightly. ‘Well, when I get back, I wanna talk about that, okay? I wanna talk about what we’re gonna do after the war. After you win.’ 

‘I would like that,’ Mycroft whispered, his voice soft and full of affection. His lips lost that tightness, his eyes turned shimmery, like pools of dark liquid. Greg couldn’t help but reach up, and place a chaste kiss on those warm lips. 

It was only a small thing, a taste, but Greg wanted more. How he wanted…

‘We’re gonna have the rest of our lives, love,’ Greg said, leaning back. ‘Now, I’ve got a job to do. And so do you, _General Holmes.’ _

Mycroft smiled. ‘Indeed,’ he murmured. ‘You make it more bearable, my love.’ 

‘Oh, don’t deny you enjoy it a bit.’ 

‘I shall not deny it then,’ Mycroft shot back. Greg grinned, and hesitantly pushed out of his arms, before leaning down to grab the uniform off the ground, feeling a little guilty for dropping it in the first place. An unfortunate side effect of being around Mycroft; he seemed to lose the plot from time to time. 

A sacrifice well worth making though, in his own opinion. 

It was strange, really. They were in the middle of a war, living in secret in an underground hole. People were dying who were fighting for them and their cause — but right now Greg couldn’t think about that. All he could see was the future, stretching out in front of them, golden and bright. It was nothing like it had been in the Games, when Greg just couldn’t see it. 

Now he could see it, and it was so bright it was blinding. 

‘Lestrade, we gotta get you going,’ said Anthea, poking her head back around the door frame. ‘You need to get changed.’ 

‘Okay,’ nodded Greg. He shot a glance at Mycroft, reaching out his hand hesitantly. They hadn’t really discussed much about how much affection they’d show each other in public. They’d done it in the conference room earlier, holding hands in a show of unity, but that had been planned. That had a purpose. 

This was entirely different. It wasn’t just them.

Mycroft reached out, confidently, taking Greg’s hand and winding their fingers together, a quiet act of solidarity and comfort. Greg could barely contain his gratitude, so he just beamed at Mycroft, before following Anthea around the corner. 

***

Anthea led him to another small room with a mirror, practically shoving him inside while Mycroft waited outside. Inside the room was a floor-length mirror and a single light, which Greg quickly flicked on, closing the door behind him. 

Getting into the outfit wasn’t tricky — it was far less complicated than the whole Silver Knight getup had been. He just slipped into the white under-suit, then placed all the bits of moulded armour in the right places. The gauntlets were the last thing to go on, settling over his forearms, pale blue lines beginning to glow in familiar places. 

Greg picked up the helmet from the ground, tucking it under his arm, before looking at himself in the mirror. It was a strange experience, this, seeing himself in an outfit that over the last few months he’d grown to fear. 

In the Capitol there hadn’t been many Peacekeepers at all. But they had been there. When they were there, they had made their presence abundantly clear; guarding him, standing near him, waiting for him to make the wrong move so they could drag him away to Magnussen. They had been the more obvious of the eyes on him. 

There had been eyes on him at all times, of course. There had been dozens of cameras, tiny, beady little things staring at him like insects. But they had been more unobtrusive. They had just been there, waiting for him to make a move, but not being overt about their presence. 

But the Peacekeepers were different story. In their bright white outfits, they had been horribly obvious. At least he wasn’t dressed like one of the Presidential guard. He didn’t think he could have worn that outfit. Not when his most prominent memory was of them holding a gun to John’s head. 

John…

There was another loose end that he’d have to tie up, before he did this. The hours after the first conference had been a blur — he’d been whisked away to another planning meeting, to the supply closet to find things that would fit him from their limited supply, and now he was here. 

He could barely wrap his head around everything. 

But he would have to. 

Standing here, in front of the mirror, it was a jolting moment. It was that moment when he had to wrap his head around it, because he had no choice. It was like the last time he’d seen Clara, just before they’d pushed him up into the Arena, and not let him back out until everyone else was dead. 

He hoped that this wouldn’t end like that. 

Sucking in a deep breath, Greg turned and pushed the door open. Outside, Anthea and Mycroft looked up from where they had been discussing things in quiet voices. Greg grinned at them both. 

‘How do I look?’ he asked, mockingly posing. 

Mycroft nodded, and Anthea smiled, approvingly, her smile a tight thing that barely twitched her lips. The atmosphere, when he walked out, was entirely different. There was a cloud hanging over all their heads; the outfit he was wearing had laid another weight on Greg’s shoulders. 

He couldn’t bear it. 

Silently, he let out a soft exhale, before turning to Mycroft. ‘Let’s do this,’ he nodded. 

‘I’m coming too,’ snapped a voice, from behind the three of them. 

Greg turned to see that Sally was walking up, John and Sherlock following behind her as if she was a mother duck. Smiling at the sight of his adopted son, Greg stepped forwards to greet Sally. 

‘Sal, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’ 

‘Where are you going?’ asked John, his eyes wide. 

‘District Two,’ snapped Sherlock, before Greg had a chance to reply. ‘He’s going to attempt to use his father’s name to influence trainee Peacekeepers.’ 

John frowned, looking at the curly-haired boy with narrowed blue eyes ‘Sherlock…’ 

‘Are you guys friends now?’ asked Greg, cutting in and bending down next to John. Behind him, he heard Sally shuffle past to talk to Anthea, as Mycroft followed Greg and knelt down beside him, getting down to both John and Sherlock’s height. 

Greg really hadn’t spent enough time with Sherlock to really take a good look at him — the last time he’d seen him he’d felt half dead both inside and out. But now he was getting a good look. 

Certainly, Sherlock had something about Mycroft in his eyes and face shape, the way he held himself was a dead giveaway. And those eyes — not their colour, but their gaze, that was entirely Mycroft. Greg could see a shimmering intelligence shining through like a beacon of light. He could see Sherlock looking back at him, his eyes sharp and brilliant, piercing straight through Greg. It was an almost astonishing experience. 

As he watched, he saw that Sherlock gave John a darting look, every so often, as if he could barely believe that John was real. Greg knew that look, intimately. Sherlock looked at John as if he’d never met someone like John before in his life. 

It was almost touching.

Greg offered Sherlock a smile, and reached up to ruffle those curls gently. Sherlock looked extremely put out, hissing like an offended cat, before ducking away from Greg’s fingers. Greg let out a low laugh, and turned back to John. 

‘Sherlock’s right,’ said Greg, nodded. ‘I’m going to District Two for a bit. I’m hoping I won’t be away long.’ 

John looked down, sadly. ‘I don’t want you to go away again, Greg,’ he murmured. 

‘I’m sorry, little soldier,’ replied Greg, wrapping his arm around John’s shoulder. Silently, he looked over at Mycroft, who nodded and got to his feet, placing a hand on his younger brother’s back, before leading him away. Sherlock cast a last glance back at John, before following his brother’s silent commands with a miffed look. 

‘Hey,’ murmured Greg, ‘Look at me, Johnny.’ 

John looked up, with wide, blue eyes, his lips pursed into a small pout. 

‘It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be here with Sherlock and Mycroft, and Sally and everyone else. They’ll keep you safe.’ 

‘I don’t want you to go away again, Greg,’ said John, his voice far to old for his age. His eyes looked… old. Mature. It was horrible to see. Greg didn’t want John to ever have to look like that. He didn’t ever want John to look old, or feel old, or have to be mature just yet. 

He wanted to see John running around and playing games. He wanted John just to be a kid. 

But there wasn’t time for that. They’d have the luxury for that after the war. They’d have the luxury for that once they’d won. 

‘I know you don’t, Johnny. I don’t want to go away.’ 

‘Then don’t,’ insisted John, reaching out a hand and placing it on Greg’s shoulder, his tiny fingers digging in. Greg sighed. ‘Stay here, with me and Sherlock and Mycroft. You’re gross with him.’ 

Greg let out a small snort, but at the same time exhaled a soft sigh. ‘I can’t stand by, Johnny,’ he said. ‘I have to do the right thing. For you, and for everyone else.’ 

John bit his lip, his hands dropping, his shoulders drooping. But he nodded, his face sad. ‘I know,’ said John. ‘That’s what all them people are saying about you. That you’re a good person, that you always do the right thing. They’re all callin’ you the Silver Knight ‘cause of that.’ 

‘Yes,’ murmured Greg. ‘They are.’ 

‘Just… promise you’ll come back.’ 

‘I will,’ nodded Greg. ‘I promise.’ 

Inside, Greg’s stomach was roiling. Mycroft had told him, begrudgingly, that there was a chance the trainees wouldn’t react the way he wanted them to. There was a chance that they wouldn’t follow him once they knew who he was. There was a chance he’d be handed over to the Capitol. 

But for a moment, that chance didn’t feel like it was that big. That chance felt like it was far away from him. And that was what he had to think about.

‘So you made friends with Sherlock, huh?’ 

Suddenly, a smile beamed over John’s face. It was unreserved, unhesitant. His small shoulder perked up. ‘Yeah,’ nodded John, his grin as bright as the sun. ‘Sherlock’s the best. He’s so smart… it’s _brilliant!’ _

‘I’m happy you like him,’ said Greg, reaching out and ruffling John’s hair, affectionately. John, unlike Sherlock, allowed it with a grin. 

‘We played a prank on Molly yesterday — it was brilliant.’ 

Greg tutted. ‘Don’t bother Molly, John, she’s doing a fantastic job.’ 

John rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t be an old man, Greg. It wasn’t even that big of a deal. We just… took a couple of bandages and wrapped up a helmet and pretended it was someone’s head. You should have seen her face!’ he crowed, his face victorious. 

Greg rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. 

‘—and Sherlock drew an amazing picture of a bee just like the ones in our old house at the tree at the bottom of the hill. He showed me all the different bits — did you know that bees communicate by dancing? How amazing is that?!’ 

‘Amazing,’ murmured Greg. Over John’s shoulder, he could see Sherlock’s small face looking at them, hesitantly. Above him, Mycroft and Anthea were both looking at him, while Sally had gone and gotten changed into a set of white armour just like his own. 

‘—have to get two _million _flowers just to make a pound of honey, did you know that Greg?’ 

‘No, I didn’t,’ replied Greg, grinning. ‘That’s very cool, John.’ 

John was grinning, and suddenly threw his arms around Greg’s neck. ‘I’ll be okay,’ John whispered. ‘Just… just you have to come back, okay?’ 

‘Okay,’ Greg replied, hugging John tightly. 

They broke apart just a moment later, and Greg placed his hand on John’s back, leading him back over to the group, looking at Sally. 

‘Are you coming, Sal?’ asked Greg. 

Beside her, Anthea snorted. ‘We couldn’t convince her not to,’ she shrugged.

‘That’s right,’ replied Sally, a self-satisfied smirk spreading her sable cheeks. 

Greg shrugged. ‘It’s not a good idea, Sal. But… I’m glad to have you along.’ 

‘Sally’s going too?’ asked John, his voice small. 

‘Sorry, bud,’ said Sally. ‘But you’ve got Molly and Maya, yeah?’ 

John sighed, but nodded, standing next to Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of one large, blue-green eye, before staring them all down, quietly. He glared especially at Greg, a glare that pierced through Greg, strangely enough. 

Greg smiled. He knew Sherlock would be good to John. John would be okay, here. He knew it. They would be okay. 

Mycroft, on the other hand, looked a little pale. Silently, as Anthea and Sally were talking, John and Sherlock both chiming in, he slid over to stand next to Mycroft, once again winding their fingers together. 

Mycroft glanced at him, again, his slate grey eyes saying all that needed to be said. 

***

‘So it’s that way?’ 

It was just a dark door, a set of pneumatic door sliding open to reveal a square of blackness. 

‘Yes,’ said Anthea. ‘At least, we hope so. It’s never opened for any of us. It’s only opening for you because it recognises you, Lestrade. You’re Galen’s son.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘I never even knew my father’s name,’ he murmured. ‘Yet you all know so much more about him than I ever did.’ 

‘When you come back to me,’ murmured Mycroft, ‘I shall tell you all you have ever wanted to know about your father. That is my promise.’ 

Greg smiled, softly, taking Mycroft’s hand and squeezing briefly, before letting go. ‘Thank you, love,’ he replied, before coughing sharply to press the tears back behind his eyes. 

Mycroft seemed to be able to tell, though. Yet all his partner offered him was a soft, understanding smile. 

He still had a long way to go to accepting who his father had been. He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around how important it was. He had never thought of himself as someone defined by who their father was. It had never mattered to him much his heritage. Yet now here he was, stepping through a dark door and trying his hardest to trust who his father had been. 

He was trusting a memory of a man he had barely known. 

Yet when Greg had seen a picture of Galen Lestrade, he couldn’t help but see himself in him. He could see his own grey hair, his own eyes, his own face shape, all reflected back at him. More lines around his eyes, more wrinkles in his forehead. A deeper, more practiced frown, but the spider-webs around his eyes spoke of oft-exercised smiles. 

That was what he had to remember. 

Taking a deep breath, and one last look at Mycroft, Greg turned to Sally, dressed in an identical outfit. ‘Ready?’ 

‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ she replied, with a shrug. 

Quietly, their stomachs churning and hearts beating in unison, they walked down the dark tunnel. Greg couldn’t tell how far it was. 

He glanced back over his shoulder, seeing the square of light receding, and Mycroft’s tall form there, waiting for him. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to just be able to turn back, and run into Mycroft’s arms and stay there. 

Too bad. 

The pneumatic doors hissed, and slid shut behind them, encasing them in darkness, cutting off that square of light, and Mycroft’s entire form. 

Dim lights lit up the corridor, revealing a small platform on wheels waiting for them. It looked utterly ancient, as if it hadn’t been used in hundreds of years. Greg barely recognised it for what it was; so ancient was the technology. 

He looked over at Sally, who shrugged, and delicately stepped onto the platform, taking ahold of the rusted iron bars on the outside. Off, into the dim tunnel, stretched rails, orange with rust and worn down. 

With not a small amount of trepidation, Greg followed her lead, taking a step onto the platform to stand beside her, clinging to the metal bars. 

Then, with a groan and creak of protest, the platform started to move. The wheels shrieked underneath them, as the platform carried them off towards the enemy territory. 

***

‘I think we’re here,’ murmured Greg, sitting up as, in the distance, he finally spotted the end of the twisting tunnel, a small platform and a nondescript door. 

Sally hummed, as Greg tapped her on the shoulder. She sat up, protesting the whole time, and rubbing at her eyes. Greg had no idea how long they’d been moving, but he knew he’d finally gotten used to the sound of the groaning tracks some time ago. He’d counted the dim little lanterns as they went along, but lost count somewhere around eight hundred. He knew at least triple that number had passed since then. 

Beneath him, the platform ground to a halt, pausing at the platform. The tracks creaked and screamed in protest, as they jolted beneath them both. 

‘Come on,’ Greg said, helping Sally to her feet with a hand on one elbow. 

‘Do you think this is it?’ asked Sally, her voice quiet. 

‘This has to be,’ mumbled Greg. ‘I don’t know, but I hope so.’ 

‘So do I,’ she muttered, in return, as they stepped down off the platform. The platform screeched under them as they did, the grainy texture of the rusted iron under Greg’s fingers not exactly filling him with confidence. 

‘Come on,’ Greg repeated, reaching out for the door with a hand he suddenly realised was trembling. 

‘Wait!’ snapped Sally, suddenly. ‘Before we go out — we need to put on the helmets, don’t you reckon?’ 

‘Oh, yeah, right,’ Greg nodded, absentmindedly. 

He didn’t want to think about it, particularly, but as they had moved away from the Silo Greg had felt every inch. His gut was roiling, his head spinning, as he was irrevocably torn farther and farther away from Mycroft. 

It had felt like a dagger, plunged into his stomach. 

It didn’t seem fair, really. He’d only just found Mycroft again. They’d only just found their space, and now it was gone. 

He had to be patient. He needed to be brave. 

‘Are you alright, Greggy?’ asked Sally, her voice suddenly soft and understanding. 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Greg, softly, his voice trembling. 

Sally nudged him in the side, with a sad smile. ‘Come on,’ she murmured. ‘We can do this.’ 

Greg nodded, sharply, before sucking in a deep breath. Sally was right. 

Slowly, he lifted the helmet, and eased it over his head, trying to ignore the suddenly claustrophobic feeling it gave him. He had never really been one to be afraid of small, enclosed spaces. Yet there was something about this helmet — it’s stark plainness, the way it was just… constricting his breaths, somehow. 

Inside the helmet, a soft blue display came to life. He could see the alter ego that had been designed for him, popping up in the corner. His number, his assignment. Where he needed to go, even. 

The blueprint of the training facility, and his own current location flashed up. All information his father had found for the Resistance. A Resistance he’d never known about, but was somehow in his genes. 

Greg still wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

So, instead, he ignored it, sucking in a deep breath. 

‘Okay,’ he mumbled, not entirely certain of the strange way the helmet seemed to modify the way his voice sounded. ‘Let’s do this.’ 

‘That’s the spirit,’ Sally replied. Greg could tell, even through the helmet, that she was smiling. 

Greg reached for the door again, pushing it open with a creak, and peering out. Outside the door was a small, almost rickety-looking metal staircase. Boilers and vents were located nearby, hissing steam pouring out of them like small clouds. 

Silently, Greg indicated for Sally to follow him, stepping up the rickety stairs and further towards the training facility. He could see, in the corner of his eye, that they were near the bottom of the vertical, underground facility. Above them was the communal bathroom space, which they could bypass to get to the sleeping quarters. Above that was the communal eating area, and the training spaces. 

It was later on in the night, so Greg could only hope that the trainees were asleep at this hour, and that there would be minimal guards around the area. 

As quietly as they could manage, Greg walked out the door of the boiler-room, taking a quick peek at the door so he could remember it for later. Then, they walked around a corner, and took up their positions as innocuously as possible. 

‘This is where we need to be, yeah?’ asked Sally, her voice quiet in his ear. 

‘Yes,’ Greg replied, tapping the side of his helmet to transmit to hers, before taking ahold of the electric baton and holding it across his body just as he’d seen the Peacekeepers back in the District do. 

It wasn’t too soon. 

Suddenly, two patrolling guards walked around the corner. They paused, when they reached Sally and him. Suddenly, Greg could hear the sound of his heart, beating harshly in his ears, his blood rushing in preparation for a battle that might never come. 

‘Evening, fellas,’ Greg managed to get out. 

‘Good evening,’ replied the two Peacekeepers, one a woman, the other a man. With a sharp nod of both their heads, they went on their way, their movements robotic. 

Sally let out an audible sigh, her shoulders slumping. ‘I think we need to be more robotic,’ she snarked. 

‘You’re probably right,’ grinned Greg, putting his hands on his hips sharply. ‘Now we need to go. We need to find our room.’ 

Sally nodded, in reply, following after Greg as they ghosted through the quiet halls. 

***

Greg followed the directions in his helmet the next morning, Sally following silently behind him, through towards where the mess hall was. He could already hear the sound of voices, of excitable young people and the grunting of mentors and guards from where he was down the hallway. 

Up ahead, he could see that the mess was a riot of people moving around, all in white uniforms just like the one he was wearing. They would fit right in, he hoped. 

‘There it is, Sal,’ Greg said, into his helmet. Behind him, Sally followed, her footsteps quick and light with nerves. 

‘Coming,’ she replied, following after him. As unobtrusively as possible, they slipped in through the sliding doors, into the mess of people wandering around. Immediately, Greg noticed one thing was off. 

According to the trainee protocol he’d gotten ahold of, they were supposed to be wearing their helmets at all times outside of their own private areas. That had been perfect for them — Greg didn’t want to reveal his face and run the risk of someone knowing who he was too soon. Before he’d gotten a chance to speak to people. 

Yet it seemed like, in the mess hall, nearly everyone was missing their helmets. People were sitting at low, metal benches inside the massive, white room, leaning over metal trays and laughing with one another. All their faces were entirely bare; people of all different colours, shapes and sizes could be seen. 

The only thing Greg could see that made them out to definitely be Peacekeepers were the white outfits they were wearing. 

The only people he could see wearing their masks were the actual Peacekeepers, the guards and the mentors, standing around the edges of the room, their faces covered by the expressionless white masks. 

‘Oh no,’ Sally whispered, her voice quiet. 

‘I have an idea,’ replied Greg. ‘I need to be a guard. I have to keep my face covered. But they’re less likely to know who you are. You need to go in,’ he muttered, ‘And you need to be the one who talks to people, okay?’ 

‘No!’ snapped Sally, in return. ‘I can’t talk to people. You’re the one who’s supposed to be chatting to them, supposed to be inspiring them to leave this hellhole. What am I supposed to do? I’m too angry, Greg. See, I’m already getting angry!’ 

‘Sal!’ snapped Greg, ‘You need to stay calm. We need them in smaller groups before we reveal who I am, Sally. It’s not gonna work otherwise. That’s why I need you to go to different groups. Feel them out; see whether they’re likely to be sympathetic to our cause. Then take them away separately, and I’ll introduce myself.’ 

Sally let out a soft sigh. ‘I can’t do this, Greg. That’s not who I am. I don’t make friends easily.’ 

‘I know,’ Greg replied, trying to be as understanding as he could manage. ‘But you’re gonna have to. We don’t really have a range of options here, Sal. Also, it’s getting little suspicious that we’re just standing here.’ 

Sally seemed to take a deep breath, before steeling herself; rolling her shoulders back, then stepping out into the mess. 

Greg decided to amble over to stand next to one of the other guards at a reasonable distance, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the other masked Peacekeepers, before returning his eyes to Sally once more. He had to focus. 

***

Sally’s stomach was roiling in her gut as she approached a nearby table, all filled with younger women and men who seemed around her age. In her hands she held a still-warm tray of food — getting it a way of distracting herself from the task ahead. 

She knew she wasn’t fooling anyone — she had no idea what she was going to have to do. This hadn’t been the plan. Greg was the one who was supposed to chat, to introduce himself — he’d always been the friendly one. The nice one. The one people liked, the one they actually wanted to talk to. Sally had seen Greg make friends with the strangest of people, from hobos he met on the street to bankers, to the Peacekeepers in the main town back in District Ten. 

But, she didn’t seem to have much of a choice.

Sucking in another, deep, fortifying breath, she went to sit down. ‘Do you mind?’ she asked, through the mask, indicating to an empty spot next to a girl with cropped, spiky blonde hair. 

‘Sure,’ she replied. 

Immediately, Sally dropped her tray next to the girl, taking a seat as nonchalantly as she could. 

‘Ya know,’ said the girl. ‘You can take off your helmet. How else you gonna eat?’ 

Sally looked down at the plate, rolling her eyes. So that was why that rule was so flagrantly disregarded. ‘It says in the manual we’re not supposed to take off our helmets.’ 

The girl let out a scoff. ‘You’re new here, then,’ she snorted. ‘Course you gotta take them off. You gotta shower, ya know?’ 

‘Oh,’ said Sally. Slowly, trepidation filling her, she lifted the helmet off her head, her black curls bouncing free. The girl grinned at her, kindly, as she dumped the helmet down next to her tray. 

‘There ya go, new girl,’ she teased, bumping Sally on the shoulder. ‘What’s your name, by the way? I’m Claire.’ 

‘I’m Esther,’ Sally replied, as quickly as she could. The name felt unfamiliar and a little wrong on her tongue, but it was the one that Mycroft had chosen for her, off the top of his head. 

‘How long ya been here?’ asked another boy, with closely shaved, dark brown hair, and wide brown eyes.

‘Not long,’ Sally shrugged. ‘Just moved from District One.’ 

‘Oh, sweet,’ replied another girl, her long, black hair glossy and thick. ‘I’m from District One too. Long time ago, though.’ 

‘Oh, really?’ asked Sally, looking over at the girl. 

‘Yeah, ‘bout four years now. Almost at the end of the course, I am.’ The girl seemed so proud of her accomplishment, her eyes shining, that Sally couldn’t help but theorise why. Were her parents proud of her for pursuing a career Sally couldn’t help but think of as deeply evil?

Sally couldn’t tell. 

‘That’s awesome,’ replied Sally. ‘Lucky for you. I’ve got ages to go, I guess.’ 

‘Nah,’ teased the blonde. ‘Thalia’s just shit at learning. I reckon you’ll be in and out in six months.’ 

Thalia snorted. ‘Shut up, Claire.’ With a roll of her eyes, she turned back to Sally. ‘So, new girl, why’d you sign up? It’s a bad time to be a Peacekeeper, ain’t you heard?’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Sally, leaning over the table. 

Thalia rolled her eyes. ‘Cause of all the riots, ya know? A friend of mine out in District Five, he’s… well, let’s just say I haven’t heard of him since District Five was taken by those terrorists.’ 

Sally sucked in a breath. ‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘I just joined ‘cause I wanted to help. I don’t think they’re terrorists, isn’t that a little harsh.’ 

‘Well, on that,’ said Claire, ‘I heard that this band of rebels is actually the one started by Galen Lestrade. Ya know, the Rogue?’ 

‘Nah, bullshit,’ replied Thalia. ‘It’s just a myth.’ 

‘It’s not,’ Sally said. ‘My dad knew him,’ she lied. This was actually going somewhere, to her surprise. The three at the table leaned forwards, Thalia’s long, black hair falling into her food. But she was too focused on what Sally was saying to think about it, her eyes shining with interest. Claire was also leaning over, peering at Sally, and the dark-haired boy was also looking up from his own food. 

‘Your dad knew the Rogue?’ asked Claire, her eyes wide. 

Sally couldn’t help but snort internally. That nickname was ridiculous. Of course, it wasn’t nearly as ridiculous as ‘Silver Knight’, but it did seem to run in the family. 

Sally was never going to let Greg live this one down. 

‘Yeah,’ she shrugged. ‘Never told me much about him. I just thought… might be cool to join the Peacekeepers. See if I couldn’t find out more on my own.’ 

‘Shh,’ hissed the boy, suddenly. ‘Keep it down. Can’t let the bosses hear that we’re talking about the Rogue.’ 

‘Shit,’ whispered Claire, leaning in. ‘Almost forgot. Esther, kid, ya gotta keep it down round here.’ 

‘Right,’ replied Sally, nodding. ‘Sorry.’ 

It was strange to hear herself referred to by a different name. She was gonna have to get used to it, though. She could see the next couple of weeks stretching out in front of her, interminable. 


	21. Ranks

‘So,’ asked Greg, as soon as they got back to their little space inside the training compound, ‘How’d it go?’ 

Sally sighed, taking her helmet off and flicking her hair over her shoulder. A small smile decorated her face, carving through her sable cheeks. ‘Great,’ she replied. ‘They know who your father was. They respect him. The ones I talked to, at least.’ 

‘Those three young ones, right?’ asked Greg, raising an eyebrow. 

‘Yeah,’ nodded Sally. ‘Claire, Thalia and Ash.’ 

‘I saw you talking to them,’ said Greg. ‘How long before you think you trust them enough for me to introduce myself?’ 

‘It’s still risky,’ shrugged Sally. ‘We gotta give it a bit of time. They’re doing drills tomorrow in the parade grounds tomorrow, up on ground level.’

‘They’ll have to wear helmets for that, right?’ asked Greg, looking up from where he’d been sitting on his low bed, looking at his own hands. ‘Maybe I can go then. We can have a bit of a chat.’ 

‘From what I’ve heard,’ said Sally, ‘It’s really strict. You’re not really allowed to talk. But maybe, yeah. I think you should at least come, anyway.’ 

Greg nodded, with a smile. ‘That sounds good.’ 

‘So,’ said Sally, ‘What’ve you been up to?’ 

Greg shrugged, ‘Just a bit of general snooping,’ he replied. Sally nodded. ‘I think that maybe when you guys are eating is probably a good time for me to go do a bit of snooping. They’ll think I’m in the mess hall somewhere, so I can go snooping around and take a look at the bowels of this place.’ 

‘When are you going to eat?’ asked Sally, ‘What are you going to eat?’ 

‘That’s what I need to ask you,’ said Greg. ‘We need to come up with some way for you to sneak me food. Otherwise I might starve.’ 

Sally let out a snort, collapsing down onto the bed across from his, and throwing an arm over her face. ‘Serves you right, you old bastard.’ 

‘Who’re you calling old, Sal?’ asked Greg, raising an eyebrow. ‘You’re older than me.’ 

‘Unbelievable,’ Sally replied, turning her head and deliberately rolling her eyes at him, before turning back over.

Greg sighed. ‘Is something bothering you, Sal?’ he asked. 

‘No,’ replied Sally, clearly lying. Greg rolled his eyes, and slid across the floor to lean next to her bed. He rolled his head back, so he was looking up at the ceiling. 

‘Don’t lie to me,’ said Greg, his voice soft. ‘Is it about me asking you to talk to them in the mess hall back there?’ 

‘A bit,’ confessed Sally. ‘I don’t know, it’s hard to describe.’ 

‘I get it,’ shrugged Greg, turning his head to look at her. 

‘I’m not good at this shit,’ she said. ‘I’m not the one that makes people love them. You’ve always been the one that people admire. The one that people love. I’m not that person. I never could be.’ 

‘Of course you can,’ said Greg, reaching out a hand and resting it on her shin. ‘I’m not special. I… I guess I just talk to people, and they like me.’ 

‘That’s not the only thing,’ said Sally. ‘People… admire you. They admire you, in a way they don’t admire me.’ 

‘Fuck knows why,’ said Greg, snorting. 

Sally laughed. ‘But seriously, Greg. People like you. They don’t like me. Basic fact of life. I’m just…’ 

‘Spiky?’ suggested Greg. 

‘Yeah,’ nodded Sally. 

‘Well, I think you’re gonna do fine. And if they hate you, so be it. We’ll just sneak back out again.’ 

‘We can’t fail General Holmes,’ said Sally, her voice soft and sad. 

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Greg. ‘This is only one of Mycroft’s plans. He has a backup on a backup. He always does.’ 

Sally sighed, without replying. There was a moment of silence, just the sound of their soft breaths. 

‘It’s strange,’ said Sally, after a moment. ‘I never really thought of the Peacekeepers as… I don’t know how to put it. Real, I guess? They were always just kind of… there. I didn’t think of them as having real thoughts. 

‘Then, after they killed my Dad, I guess… I just hated them. Hated all of them.’ 

‘Weren’t you friends with a couple, back in the District?’ asked Greg, raising an eyebrow. 

‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘I bribed them to give me information about the other Districts. That was about it. I bribed them with like… money and shit.’ 

‘And shit?’ queried Greg. 

‘Don’t ask,’ said Sally, her voice sharp. 

There was another moment of silence. 

‘But being here… I suppose it reminded me that they’re human. They’re human, and they have feelings, and they’re real just like you and me. They have friends, they have family… it’s strange.’ 

‘Not really,’ said Greg. ‘Everyone’s a real person. Everyone’s someone’s son or daughter, someone’s brother or sister. Someone’s friend. You have to be compassionate to everyone because you don’t know who they are. But they’re just like me and you; their lives are just as real as ours.’ 

‘It’s hard to think like that,’ said Sally. ‘It’s easier just to… I don’t know. See them as less-than, I guess.’ 

‘I understand,’ Greg murmured. ‘But you can’t think like that, because otherwise you’re cruel to people. You have to think of them as real, and human, as alive as you and me. Cause otherwise you end up like Magnussen.’ 

‘That’s why,’ Sally sighed out, rolling her head to look down at Greg. ‘That’s why people love you. Because you treat them as _real. _And it’s why people will never love me as much as they love you. Because I don’t see them as real. Or… it’s hard for me to see people that I don’t know personally and intimately as real.’ 

Greg shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t. I just know how I’d want to be treated. How I’d want to be respected.’ 

Sally let out a burst of laughter, looking up at the ceiling and tossing her hands over her head. ‘Mr Goody-Two-Shoes over here.’ 

Greg rolled his eyes and laughed, pushing her in the shoulder. Their chests bounced, and their eyes watered with laughter together. Greg was content, for a moment. Content here… in this single point in time. 

***

The next morning, as a siren sounded overhead, Greg followed Sally up a set of stairs, blending into the sea of identically-outfitted Peacekeepers, headed for the surface. The direct connection between Greg and Sally was live; Greg could hear Sally’s soft breathing in his ear. He was so thankful for the direct link Mycroft had set up for them — it made things so much easier. 

‘That’s two of them,’ said Sally, softly in his ear, ‘Up ahead, see?’ 

Greg could make out the forms of two Peacekeepers up ahead, indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd if it wasn’t for the numbers pasted on the backs of their helmets. ‘You know their numbers?’ asked Greg. 

‘Yeah,’ replied Sally. ‘I have them in my helmet’s memory. I put them there yesterday so I wouldn’t forget who I’d talked to. That way, as we both slowly work through the crowd, we can keep track of who we know, who’s on our side, and who we don’t.’ 

‘Good thinking,’ replied Greg. 

Sally didn’t reply, aside from a curt thanks. She sped up, gesturing for Greg to follow her, and tapped one on the shoulder. ‘Thalia,’ she said. ‘Claire,there you are! I’ve been looking for you.’ 

The connection sparked, and Greg heard the two other women connect. ‘Hey, Esther. How are you?’ asked one girl. 

‘Yeah, alright, Claire. Hey, this is my friend, Sam,’ said Sally, gesturing to Greg behind her. 

‘Hey,’ said Greg, curtly, waving slightly with one hand. 

‘Nice to meet you, mate,’ said the other girl, who Greg assumed was Thalia.’ 

‘So,’ Greg said. ‘What’s going on? Sorry, I’m new here.’ 

‘Ah,’ said Claire. ‘Well, we’re going up to the parade grounds. If you’re new, then prepare for the heat, because it is gonna be intense. District Two’s a bit of a desert, see.’ 

‘Right,’ nodded Greg. ‘But, what’s happening at this parade ground?’ 

‘Marching practice,’ she replied, with a shrug. ‘Come on, new kid. Get your head together.’ 

‘Sorry,’ Greg replied, shaking his head. 

‘Come on,’ snapped Thalia, her voice suddenly sharp. ‘We can’t get left behind.’ 

Sally nodded, and Greg followed behind her as they continued marching up the metal stairs. They were heading for a small door above them, which Greg could see trainees filing through at top speed. Even though they were still some distance underground, gReg could feel the sudden wave of heat as it began to pour through the doorway, bathing them in their suits. It did give him a little bit of a feeling like he was being baked — not the most comfortable experience of his life. 

Soon enough, they reached the top. He was pushed through by the wave of trainees following after him, as they all filed after one another. As they moved into what Greg assumed was the parade ground, the chaos below seemed to filter out. Instead, they were being moved into neat lines. 

Greg couldn’t see much, but he could tell they were at the back of the parade ground. Surrounding them on all sides were tall, thick walls, which Greg could see Peacekeepers in white marching along, armed with batons fizzling with electricity. He could also see that they were being grouped up, neatly ordered into rows and columns, standing behind one another. 

Following Sally, who was in turn following behind her two new friends, they were lined up at the back of a nearby legion, in a line of ten. Greg could see, from a rough count, that it was a ten-by-ten group of people in rows and columns, so one-hundred trainees, lined up.

He could also see that there had to be at least a hundred of these groups, already lined up inside the walls. At the front there seemed to be the more highly trained, experienced trainees, while towards the back there were newer, younger trainees. Greg couldn’t tell how young they were, but he could see that they must be quite young — as there were quite a few short ones towards the back from a cursory glance. 

There were so many of them, it nearly took his breath away. Legions were already being lined up behind him, grouped up until they seemed to fill the whole space, a sea of white-wearing trainees surrounding him like an ocean. 

They all seemed to be assuming the same position; hands folded behind their backs, and feet shoulder-width apart. Greg did the same, quickly, hoping he hadn’t been noticed for his earlier lolly-gagging. 

At the far end of the parade ground, Greg could see three massive gates, bright blue with electricity instead of being forged from metal. He could hear their hissing and humming even from this distance, like a swarm of massive, angry wasps. Beyond that, he could see dunes of sand, worn, red earth beyond even that. 

He was on the shorter side, he knew, so he couldn’t really see over the helmeted heads of the people in front of him. However, at the front of the parade ground, in the direction everyone was facing, there seemed to be a tall podium. A massive stand, sticking out of the wall, a balcony-like structure on top of which three Peacekeepers were standing. Two of them were standing guard, with long, pike-like staffs. Greg just knew that at the top, on the pointed, sharp-looking heads, was an electrical charge. 

However, in the centre, stood a man. He was tall, with a nasty looking face and buck-teeth. His face was in a small grimace, which Greg could make out even from a distance, and he had wispy, grey hair that seemed to be balding. His hands were tucked behind his back, and he wore a long, white cape that blew in the hot wind that was circulating through the parade ground. 

‘Who’s that?’ asked Greg, his voice soft even though he knew the only person who could hear him was Sally. 

‘Commander Jefferson Hope,’ replied Sally. ‘He’s the head of the Peacekeeper training facility. Cruel bastard, from what I’ve heard. Claire was complaining about him yesterday.’ 

‘Oh, right,’ said Greg. ‘He was in all that information we were given. Wasn’t he—‘ 

Greg was suddenly cut off by the screech of a loud siren, over the parade ground. He tried not to flinch, tamping down the instinct as best he could. He knew it hadn’t quite been good enough, but he hoped no one had noticed. They were on thin ice already as it was. He already felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb. 

‘TRAINEES!’ bellowed Hope, his voice high and throaty, a nasty turn to it that made Greg’s stomach flip in disgust. ‘We are here today to practice drills under my command,’ he said. ‘However first, an example must be made.’ 

Greg’s stomach flipped, again, for an entirely different reason. The doors behind the grey-haired commander were creaking open, and two more Peacekeepers were walking out, their pikes pointed between them. Being dragged in by his arms was a young man with dark, closely cropped hair. Greg couldn’t make out much of his facial features — his face was covered in blood. His chest was entirely bare, and Greg could see that there were already long streak-marks down the young man’s back. 

Beside him, Sally sucked in a sudden breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the two girls that they had been talking to earlier had flinched, ever so slightly. 

‘Sal,’ asked Greg, his voice wary. ‘Who’s that? Do you know him?’ 

‘Yeah,’ whispered Sally. ‘It was the guy I told you about earlier. The one I was talking to with Claire and Thalia with. Ash.’ 

‘Oh,’ whispered Greg, his voice shaky. ‘Oh, no.’ 

‘This trainee was found last night, trying to escape the compound!’ snapped Hope, his voice harsh. ‘What do we do to deserters?!’ 

The question was bellowed out, the speaker system groaning and whining on his voice. 

There was a dead silence. No one dared to move a muscle. Greg wanted to scream out, wanted to reach out a hand and stop him. But there was nothing to be done. 

‘THAT WAS A DIRECT QUESTION, TRAINEES!!’ bellowed Hope, once again, his voice loud and grating in everyone’s ears. Greg flinched, again. ‘Answer the question.’ 

There was another moment of silence. Then, a low grade shock travelled up Greg’s spine. From the sight of the rest of the trainees, Greg could see that he hadn’t been the only one to get shocked. Sally flinched, violently, and others around him jolted, but didn’t let themselves fall out fo that trained position. However, behind him, Greg did hear a few young-sounding voices cry out in pain, before being sharply and almost violently cut off. 

‘LASHING!!’ boomed the collective voices of all the trainees in the parade ground, as one. 

‘Very good,’ said Hope, a horrid smile crossing his features. ‘We lash those who desert the might of the Capitol.’ 

Greg remained silent, hoping to everything he could that no-one had heard his silence. He couldn’t bear the thought of saying something like that out loud, as if he was the one reading the sentence off a sheet of paper, and handing down the fate. 

Beside him, Sally was breathing heavily, and Greg could tell her throat was choked up. He had the same sensation, a lump in his throat that he couldn’t describe. But he couldn’t show it. He had to breathe evenly. 

He tried his best to focus on that, breathing in and out. 

As he watched, he saw that the two Peacekeepers who had dragged Ash out were now pulling whips off of their belts, and holding them up to the sunlight. Greg could see that they were gleaming, a sure sign that they were studded with metal. Greg had never been whipped before, but he remembered seeing that sort of thing happen, out in the middle of the town square. He remembered the sight of the metal, gleaming under the sun like a proverbial axe. 

And he remembered the silence of the moment before that whip fell, arching through the air in a deadly swipe. 

The two Peacekeepers flanking Hope reached out, pulling Ash to his knees, his bloody face turning to the ground of the balcony. Then, a breath of silence, before the whips arched through the air, one by one. 

Greg heard the sickening swipe of the lash striking flesh, and tearing through. He couldn’t see the vicious cuts they would be forming, but he could imagine them. The sound reminded him, horribly, of the sight of Moriarty’s whip arching through the air towards him, straight down his chest. He remembered the bone-deep ache as those metal beads punched through his skin, tore through his chest and left a deep cut. 

He could feel it tingling, uncomfortably, now. He could feel where it began at his shoulder, burning down to his hip; the feeling of the venom burning through his blood. That was something he’d always hoped he’d never have to feel again. 

‘No,’ whimpered Sally, beside Greg. ‘No, Greg, we have to do something.’ 

Greg couldn’t find it in him to reply. He couldn’t move, he was rooted to the spot, his mind back in that moment of the Games. He could feel the edges of the scar burning and burning hot, as the lash landed again and again and again on that poor young man’s back. 

He’d only been struck once. Greg had only been struck the one time that time by Moriarty’s whip. He had been struck again, towards the end, but nowhere near as badly. 

But this young man— Greg had lost count of the number of times the massive, black whip had landed on his back in a sickeningly fleshy thud. As the whips arched through the air, again, Greg could see that it was glistening with blood. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out that the two girls they were with were flinching with every strike. They were flinching, and shaking, and Greg could see their knees trembling. He knew his own knees were trembling. 

But everyone else; all the other trainees, they seemed stoic. They seemed like they had seen this before — they were just waiting it out. 

Greg couldn’t understand how they could ever get used to this. How they could ever just stand by and let this happen. 

Fear, of course. Fear of that happening to them. Fear of putting a toe out of line. 

Fear was a powerful motivator. 

After what felt like an eon, there was one last, fleshy strike. Ash had already collapsed to the ground in a heap of mangled flesh. Greg could make out a little of what his back looked like - a fleshy mess of blood and gore. It was horrific to look at, and Greg could already feel a rise of nausea in his stomach. 

Silence reigned through the parade ground, now that those fleshy thuds had stopped. All the trainees were deathly quiet — so quiet Greg could have sworn he heard a bird, stepping on a branch. The heat beat down on their shoulders; so harsh that it felt like waves of fire burning through Greg’s blood. 

In his ear, he realised he could hear Sally suck in deep, uneven breaths, as they both fought to retain their positions. 

‘Let this be a lesson!’ cried Hope, his voice high and triumphant. ‘Let this show you that we do not tolerate _cowards!_ President Magnussen will not have those who are weak fighting the terrorists for the glory of Panem!’ 

‘The glory of Panem!’ echoed the guards, marching on top of the walls. They were solid and harsh sounding, the words ricocheting like an accusation around the parade ground. 

‘The glory of Panem!’ echoed the trainees, in return, their words sounding forced and dark. Greg couldn’t help but shake, a little, as the words dully echoed out of his own mouth. 

His eyes felt like they were bleeding. 

‘Now!’ snapped Hope. ‘Let us begin.’ 

He stepped over Ash’s limp body with a distasteful sneer, as the body was slowly dragged away, through the doors. The doors slammed shut with a clang. 

***

The oppressive silence reigned in the mess hall. Sally sat hunched over her meal, at the table, the two girls beside her fidgeting, very obviously. Thalia had her shoulders rolled over, her long hair dragging in her food. Sally couldn’t see her face, the veil of her hair blocking it from view. 

‘Claire,’ said Sally, her voice as soft and understanding as she could make it. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’ 

Claire looked up, a harsh kind of sadness shining in those eyes. Her cropped, blonde hair was tousled from her helmet, and bags were already forming from her crying under her eyes. Her face was a pinkish-red colour, and her lips were pursed. ‘He was my friend,’ she murmured. 

Sally pursed her lips. ‘I know,’ she said. 

‘It’s not fair,’ whispered Thalia. ‘He never did anything to hurt anyone. He’s been here for so long. He’s been here for longer than I have.’ 

‘Do you know where he came from?’ asked Sally, her voice gentle. 

‘No,’ Claire replied, at the same time as Thalia did.

‘He never told us,’ Thalia said, shrugged her shoulders. ‘I never knew why. We asked him… I don’t know.’ 

‘So,’ tried Sally, ‘Do you know where he is now?’ 

‘Probably the med bay,’ replied Claire, shrugging her shoulders, trying for nonchalant. Sally could tell it was an act. ‘Then, he’ll be bumped down the ranks to be with the brand new ones. We might not see him for a while.’ 

‘I see,’ said Sally. ‘But… he’ll come back?’   
‘They’re never the same,’ said Thalia, in a haunted voice. ‘There have been others who got whipped, who got taken off to the med bay. They never quite come back the same.’

‘Hey,’ said Claire, narrowing her eyes at Sally, suddenly. ‘Esther, where’s your friend? Sam?’ 

Sally sighed, looking down into her tray. ‘I dunno,’ she replied. 

She really didn’t. She didn’t know where Greg was, or what he was doing. She just hoped he wasn’t off doing something stupid. But she couldn’t help the thought that he might be sticking his nose somewhere it wasn’t supposed to be. 

Claire bit her lip. Sally could tell she was trying to hold back from saying something. She could only hope Claire wasn’t getting too suspicious. 

‘It’s not fair,’ murmured Thalia, again. 

Suddenly, something occurred to Sally. 

‘You’re right,’ said Sally, sitting up straighter in her chair. ‘It’s not fair. It’s not fair that Ash got punished. If he wants to leave, he should be able to freely do that. He shouldn’t just be forced to be here.’ 

‘What are you saying?’ asked Claire, raising one dark eyebrow at her, her face curling suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’ 

Sally pursed her lips, trying to think of the best way to say this. 

It was cruel, Sally knew, but this was a chance for them. This was a chance for them to show these two that there was another way. That the Resistance wanted to be fair and just. That if they joined the Resistance, then they would be allowed to leave whenever they wanted. 

Sally hunched her head over, gesturing for Claire and Thalia to lean in and listen to her. ‘Listen to me,’ she murmured, as quietly as she could. ‘There’s always another way. After the meal… I want to show you guys something.’ 

Claire narrowed her eyes. ‘What is it?’ she asked, her lips curling. 

‘Another way,’ said Sally, confidently. ‘There’s always another way. There’s a way to get justice, I mean. I want you to come and meet someone, with me.’ 

‘Alright,’ Thalia said, suddenly, her voice harsh in whisper, as she flicked her long, black hair over her shoulder. 

‘What are you saying?’ asked Claire, looking over at Thalia with narrowed eyes. ‘We can’t do this, Thal, we’ll be lashed like Ash.’ 

‘It’s worth it,’ said Thalia, her voice dark. ‘I want to do something. I’m angry, Claire. I’m angry that Ash got beaten like that, and all the others before him. Remember Sasha? And Silvio? I haven’t seen them for months. All cause they were found together.’ 

Sally bit her lip, her eyes narrowing. She could see, though, that Claire was weakening. She could see that the trainee Peacekeeper wasn’t happy, that her fists were also clenching in anger. 

Then, she could see the blonde give in. 

‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘Fine. Esther… I hope you know what you’re doing.’ 

‘My name’s not Esther,’ murmured Sally, her voice as soft as she could. She tried not to let the fear she was now feeling show on her face. She felt a little ill at the fact that she was about to reveal who she was to them. But she knew she had to do it. A show of trust, so to speak. 

She was asking them to trust her. She was asking them to trust her in every way, shape and form, with their lives and their futures. 

It was a lot to ask. She could at least do this in return. 

As quietly as she could, she whispered. ‘I’m not Esther. And I’m not a Peacekeeper trainee. I’m with the Resistance. My real name is Sally Donovan.’ 

Claire was looking at her with wide eyes. Thalia’s mouth was open in shock, as she stared at Sally, her tray forgotten beneath her. Sally smiled, softly. ‘I can help you guys to get out of here. Just like I want to help everyone else here.’ 

***

As quietly and unobtrusively as Sally could manage, she snuck the two girls down the hall, towards the room she was sharing at the bottom of the compound with Greg. She had no idea if he was even in there — she hadn’t heard from him in a while, but all she could do was cross her fingers and hope. There wasn’t really much else to do. 

She knew that if she led the two girls to an empty room, they wouldn’t immediately jump to conclusions. But it would look bad for her. She knew she had to convince them somehow, and she also knew that she wasn’t the right person to do it.

But Greg was. 

All she could do was convince them enough to hear Greg out. And Greg was going to have to do the rest. 

But she knew he would manage it. She knew he would bend them to their cause. And with them on side, they could creep through the rest of the ranks. Convince enough, and they would have a ready-made army. 

Sally knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as that. She knew that there was going to be roadbumps. But all she could do was hope that this was going to be enough. 

‘Where are we going?’ asked Thalia, her voice soft, as they marched through the halls with as much purpose as possible. It was later on in the evening, so the halls were empty, but Sally knew better than to assume. She could only assume that there was someone listening. There was always someone listening. 

‘My room,’ replied Sally. ‘He should be waiting for us there.’ 

‘How much farther?’ asked Claire. She was still suspicious, Sally knew. It was difficult to trust in this place. But she was counting on them both to be angry enough to take a leap of faith. To trust in her. It was a lot to ask.

Sally knew that it was a lot to ask. 

‘Not too far,’ Sally replied, spotting up ahead the door. She couldn’t yet tell whether or not Greg was inside, but the door was entirely shut, not open even a crack, which did bode well. 

Slowly, Sally pushed the door open with one hand, the two other girls flanking her behind. Inside, she had to strangle a sigh of relief, as she could see that Greg was inside, leaning over and peering at something on the low table pushed against the wall between their beds. His back was to them, the grey hair on his head tousled from being inside his helmet. 

At the creak of the door, Greg turned, his eyes going wide at the sight of them. He recognised them just a moment later, letting out a breathy sigh, and smiling at her. There was trust in that smile, despite the question in those brown eyes. 

Sally quickly shut the door behind the three of them, before pulling her helmet off and tossing her hair to let it loose. 

Behind her, the two girls had entirely frozen at the sight of Greg. Sally moved to stand next to Greg, trying to smile as reassuringly as she could. 

She didn’t have to worry. 

‘Are you—‘ whispered Claire, pulling the helmet off her head. ‘You’re—‘ 

‘Hi there,’ said Greg, his voice rumbly and low. ‘Claire, right?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Claire replied, weakly. Beside her, Thalia too had pulled off her helmet, her hair a mess but she didn’t seem to care at all. 

‘I’m Greg Lestrade,’ Greg shrugged, holding out a hand. ‘We met before. Sally told you my name was Sam.’ 

‘We know who you are,’ said Thalia, her voice trembling. ‘But… they told us you were dead.’ 

‘Not dead,’ said Greg, with a grin. ‘I suppose I get a resurrection too, huh?’ 

Sally had to snort into her hand, then, rolling her eyes and nudging Greg in the side. ‘Shut up, you idiot.’

Greg rolled his own brown eyes. ‘Aww, come on. That was a little funny.’ 

‘Dark,’ Sally shot back. ‘But necessary.’ 

‘Always,’ replied Greg. ‘Sorry,’ he sighed, looking back at the two girls who were still staring at him, dumbstruck. ‘Don’t worry about that. Inside joke. As I was saying, I’m Greg Lestrade. I was in the Hunger Games?’ 

‘We… we know who you are,’ repeated Thalia, croaking now. 

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ asked Claire, suddenly, stepping forwards. ‘They’re gonna kill you if they find you here.’ 

‘Well,’ shrugged Greg, the charm in full swing, as he ran a hand through his grey locks. Sally had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. On any other guy, the move would look forced, but on Greg it was artful, unconscious. ‘Nothing good in life comes without a little bit of risk.’ 

‘Seriously,’ said Thalia, leaning forwards, her helmet hanging from her hand. ‘Why are you here?’ 

‘To help,’ Sally cut in. ‘We want to help you all. We want you to fight for the Resistance. Not for the Capitol.’

Claire narrowed her eyes. ‘Why?’ 

‘Because it’s gonna be different,’ said Greg, his voice soft and serious. ‘We… Mycroft and I, and the rest of the Resistance. We’re gonna make it different.’ 

‘So he’s really alive then?’ asked Thalia. ‘He survived the Games?’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Greg, nodding, his eyes turning down, before glancing back up again. ‘Mycroft Holmes survived.’ 

‘How’s that possible?’ asked Claire. ‘We all saw him stab himself in the heart.’ 

‘Not quite,’ said Greg, holding up a finger. ‘He didn’t. He aimed it just next to his heart. Enough to put him into a coma. Not enough to kill him.’ 

Sally held out a hand, suddenly, placing it on Greg’s elbow. She could see that his hands were fisted at his sides. This was clearly still a heavy subject for him. ‘That’s not why I asked you to come,’ said Sally. ‘We need your help.’ 

‘Right!’ Greg said, a grin reforming on his face. ‘Sorry. So… yeah… the reason we asked you to come here is because I want to ask you both to join the Resistance. We’re… we’re trying to build a better world. A fairer world, where shit like that doesn’t happen.’ 

‘That’s impossible,’ said Claire, her eyes narrowed. ‘There are always gonna be cruel people.’ 

‘There will always be cruel people,’ said Greg. ‘There will always be those who are cruel to others, who are then in turn cruel to you. You always have a choice, though. You always have a choice whether you’re cruel, or not. And you can choose not to.

‘I can tell you from experience that choosing not to be cruel isn’t always the easiest thing to do. But… that’s the kind of world I want to live in. I want to live in a place where people are free to do what they want to do. Where they have rights; where they don’t have to fear slavery, or brainwashing, or torture. I want to live in a world where children don’t have to worry about being shoved into an Arena and forced to fight one another to the death.

‘I want a good world. That’s what the Resistance is about. We’re not terrorists, we’re not warmongers. We’re trying our hardest to avoid a war, even though Magnussen won’t let us. I want a good world for my son, and for my friends.’ 

Claire and Thalia were entirely silent. Both were looking at Greg with wide eyes, listening to what he was saying. The quiet wasn’t oppressive, in the room. Sally could hear the burgeoning hope in the soft intake of breath both girls were taking. 

‘I know it’s hard,’ murmured Greg, ‘To see something we’ve never seen before. Something we’ve never heard of before. I want us to be able to decide who leads us. I want us to be able to choose how we live our lives, not let it be defined by where we live. By who our parents are.’ 

‘Your father,’ cut in Claire, her voice sharp. ‘He was… was he… Galen Lestrade?’ 

Greg sighed. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘My father was Galen Lestrade. I don’t know much about who he was. But I know he was kind. And I know that he wanted a good world for me, but was never able to achieve it.’ 

‘The Rogue… here he’s known as kind. He’s a story,’ said Thalia, her voice soft and sad. ‘He’s a story that we used to whisper between ourselves, late at night when we were forced to do night drills, or a name we chanted in our heads when we had to watch shit like that happen. When we had to see people get lashed for small things — eating too much at dinner, trying to write a letter to their parents, kissing one another.’ 

Greg smiled a small, soft smile. ‘That’s good to know,’ he murmured.

There was a beat of silence. 

‘The name Lestrade holds a lot of weight here,’ said Claire. ‘But if they find out…’ 

‘I know,’ Greg cut in, ‘They’ll hurt you… kill you, maybe… And fair enough if you don’t want to risk that. I don’t want to ask you to do something you’re not comfortable with. But… I am asking you. In my name, in my father’s name, on behalf of a Resistance that needs your help, and wants to build a world for all of us, not just for Magnussen and the Capitol.’ 

Claire let out a sigh, looking down at her feet. ‘I won’t deny that I’m angry. I want revenge. So… I guess… I’m in.’ 

‘Thank you,’ said Greg, his eyes wide and voice soft with sincerity. 

Slowly, they both turned to Thalia. The girl was looking quite young, her face open, sad and innocent. She was twisting a lock of dark hair around her finger, fiddling with the edge of one of the armour plates on her forearm with the other hand. 

She looked up at the three of them, her eyes wide. ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured. ‘It’s such a risk.’ 

‘What do we have to lose, Thal?’ asked Claire, softly. ‘We haven’t seen our families in years. I don’t even know if they remember us. And… what life is there really, for a Peacekeeper? I’d be happier dying for this good world that the Silver Knight’s talking about, rather than living in a world where shit like what happened to Ash happens to everyone I care about.’ 

Thalia looked down at her feet, before glancing up again. Her hands had dropped to her sides, and Sally could see that they were shaking. Suddenly, however, they turned steady, and a new resolve rose in the dark-haired woman’s eyes. 

‘Alright,’ she nodded. 

Sally let out a sigh of relief. Greg grinned. ‘Thank you. Both of you.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not impressed with myself over this chapter. Or this whole arc of the story, to be honest. But I felt bad about not updating in a very long time, so here we are. Maybe after I'm finished I'll come back and redo this whole arc, but until I have more time, I doubt that's going to happen. 
> 
> Any comments and questions, and of course all of your kudos are greatly appreciated and welcomed, and I always look forward to reading and hearing from you all. 
> 
> I'm also really deeply sorry for not updating before now - if any of you were following along my previous story, then you'll know I work for the Australian government - in a department that saw this whole shit show coming. So in between that and the promotion that I got because my predecessor was faced with this and decided to retire; basically 'fuck it, I'm out', I haven't really had that much time - which is also why this chapter is not.... great. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it, and I hope you're all following your government's recommendations, because please, I'm begging you.... we do actually know what we're doing from time to time... 
> 
> Alright, rant over. Have a nice week, and hopefully I'll try keep a better track of updating. 
> 
> TH


	22. Liberation

‘We need some sort of distraction,’ said Mycroft, leaning over the table and peering at Culverton, who was sitting at the head, as per usual. He was leaning back in his chair, his small face wide with a falsetto of a smile, and his eyes gleaming. ‘Gregory is inside District Two. He is going to cause a fuss eventually. We need to distract Magnussen in the meantime.’

‘And how do you propose we do that?’ asked Smallwood, raising an eyebrow and peering at Mycroft.

‘District Eleven,’ replied Mycroft. ‘It is exactly where Magnussen thinks we’ll go next. It’s the most subjugated, most enslaved District. He now believes that Gregory is at the helm of the Resistance. So he will know that after the speech Gregory made in District Eleven, that it will be the first District on our list.’

‘Clever,’ commented Smallwood, her eyes sparking with interest. ‘So exactly how do you plan to do this, Holmes?’

‘I am going to march the militia into District Eleven. Force Magnussen to focus on the area by using extremely aggressive tactics against their Peacekeepers. In the meantime, we are going to use the sewage system beneath District Eleven to attempt to sneak out as many as we can.’

Smallwood leaned forwards. Meanwhile, Culverton let out a low laugh from the head of the table. ‘Would your precious Silver Knight approve of what you’re doing?’ he asked, raising a thin eyebrow in question.

Mycroft frowned, his brows low over his eyes, narrowing them and staring at Culverton, intently.

Before, he’d never really had the mental fortitude to go for a long time against Culverton’s needling. Especially on the topic of his lover. It had been difficult, because many of Culverton’s arrows had hit their target. He hadn’t enjoyed the feeling — it had always made him feel weak.

But now… now he was certain.

Gregory was standing by him, no matter what. That was what his partner had promised him. Mycroft could still see those deep, brown eyes looking up at him, wide and trusting. He could see that face smiling at him, telling him, promising him the future that they had spoken of, back in the Arena. Promising to stand by him.

Perhaps this was not the decision that Gregory would have made. But it was the decision that he was making. He could trust in himself in a new way, knowing that Gregory was standing beside him. Metaphorically, if not literally.

So he stared Culverton down, secure in the knowledge that was he was doing was right for the Resistance, and was what Gregory needed in his quest to claim the trainees in District Two. Magnussen was already growing suspicious, moving troops out of the Capitol, and towards District Two.

They had to do something big. Something that would shock Magnussen. But they would have to try and do it in a way that would not harm innocents, or create footage that Magnussen could use as propaganda. Those goals were practically impossible, or at least extraordinarily difficult.

Mycroft knew there was little he could do to prevent the creation of footage that would prove harmful to their cause. Magnussen could twist any footage to the way he wanted it. They had to do something that couldn’t be misconstrued.

That ruled out bombing.

What was left?

A march. A show of force. A show of numbers. The right words, for the right people. To show them that they weren’t out to hurt them. That they weren’t out to force them into retreat, that they weren’t terrorists like the Capitol would have them believe.

‘Holmes,’ said Smallwood, her voice soft. ‘The sewage system. Where does it lead?’

‘I have been working for some time now on connecting the Silo to District Eleven’s sewage and water transport system. District Eleven relies heavily on water and sewage systems to move the unwanted waste out from the vast agricultural lands—‘

‘—We do not have enough room,’ snapped Culverton, sitting upright in his chair. ‘We do not have enough room to fit all the people of District Eleven. We already have practically everyone from District Twelve crammed into the hangars downstairs. We also have refugees, thousands of them, from the other Districts. We can’t get the people out of District Eleven. It’s as simple as that.’

Mycroft bit his lip. Smallwood was also looking at him out of the corner of her eye, her lips pursed. She knew Culverton had a point.

The Silo was at capacity as it was. They were straining to support everyone’s needs, so many people needed to be fed, so many people needed places to sleep. It was getting to be too much. They had to find a better way, a better place for people to be.

‘I am not going to move the people out of District Eleven,’ replied Mycroft. ‘I am going to move them underground. That means that when the militia moves into the District, they won’t be harmed. Additionally, I plan to move people to District Twelve, as well. District Twelve has the space for more people.’

Culverton whistled, holding up a hand obnoxiously. ‘You haven’t thought this through, Holmes. What about the firebombs? Magnussen will no doubt try to drop them on District Twelve once he realises that’s where all the people from District Eleven are going.’

‘He can’t.’ replied Mycroft, leaning back. ‘It isn’t good publicity. Before… before Stamford was taken, he informed me that public opinion of Magnussen is slowly declining.

‘The people of the Capitol are not as supportive of Magnussen as the President might like. Magnussen cannot afford to look as if he is being cruel to his people. The people of the Districts are still a part of Panem. And that is what matters. So Magnussen cannot drop the bombs. It would turn the entire of the Capitol against him.’

Culverton rolled his eyes, getting to his feet. ‘You’re taking too much of a gamble. Magnussen is a _dictator, _in case you’ve forgotten. The people of the Capitol don’t care if he’s cruel. They’re just as cruel as he is.’

Mycroft shook his head. ‘Incorrect, Smith,’ he murmured. ‘It is quite simple. Were the people of the Capitol cruel, then they would not offer gifts to the Tributes in the Hunger Games. That is but one example. Why do you think that the people of the Capitol have fawned over the Victors? Because they pity the poor, the desperate, the wretched. They feel more morally righteous if they give gifts to those who are wretched. They enjoy that feeling. For them, it is a luxury.

‘We can exploit that. If Magnussen is seen to be all the more cruel to children, to poor peasants in District Eleven, then they no longer have the moral high ground. They can no longer sit on their high horse. Thus, they will do anything to retain that sensation of being righteous. Hence, Magnussen cannot afford to _appear _cruel. That is the trick of this gambit.’

Smallwood was looking at him directly, now. She still had paused lips, but she was nodding, tightly. ‘This is true, Holmes,’ she said. ‘I will stand by your gambit on this.’

‘I have a better idea,’ said Culverton, placing a hand on the table. ‘If what you’re saying is true, Holmes, then why don’t we take even more advantage of that? Why don’t we just disguise our hovercraft as those of the Capitol? Paint Magnussen’s crest on them, and then fire-bomb District Eleven? That way, the people of the Capitol will turn on Magnussen. They’ll rip him apart.’

Mycroft’s blood ran cold.

What Culverton was proposing… it was ruthless. Bloodthirsty. Mycroft could already hear the burning of bodies, the crying of children, the thirsty licking of flames over human bones. He had seen it before, how well human bones burned. The rancid smell of burning flesh, Mycroft could remember off the top of his head.

‘Unacceptable,’ Mycroft whispered. ‘No!’

He slammed a hand down on the table. Smallwood jolted, as Mycroft raised angry eyes from staring where he’d slammed his hand down, and pinning Culverton in place.

‘We will not execute innocents,’ he murmured. ‘We will not be cruel as those before us were cruel.’

‘Your Silver Knight’s talking,’ murmured Culverton, his beady eyes flashing.

‘He is not,’ replied Mycroft, ‘Though were he here, he would be just as outraged by your statement as I am. We will not burn the innocent. Were we to fire-bomb District Eleven, perhaps you are right. Perhaps it would create a civil war. Perhaps Magnussen would be all the easier to take out. But it is not an acceptable solution, quite simply. It is the easy way out, the easy road. But the easy road is never the right way.’

‘We’re fighting a war, Holmes!’ snapped Culverton, his beady eyes flashing. ‘We are fighting a war. We will have time for your pretty morals and your righteousness once we have _won. _You’re too young to understand what a war is. A war is innocents dying. A war is a more practical approach to morality. A more practical approach than being high and mighty. Once we’ve won, once Magnussen and all those people in the Capitol are dead, then we can have high and mighty morals. Then we can have a “save the innocents” attitude. But right now, we’re fighting a war. A war you’re too young to understand the practicalities of.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Mycroft, calmly. ‘We need to follow the morals we want in the future right now. We need to do this to prove to everyone who you are asking to follow us that we are the right people. That we’re not just more of the same.’

‘Holmes is right,’ murmured Smallwood. Culverton got this sudden look around his eyes, a trapped sort of look that Mycroft did not enjoy. He looked a little like a rabbit with its foot trapped in a cage. For a moment, it reminded him of Irene, when she finally realised Mycroft was about to drive his rapier like a lick of steel straight through her. ‘We have told those who follow us, the militia, the administrators, the captains, the engineers, the refugees. We have told them all that we are the right people. That we are the ones who are going to build a world that is right for them, that is fair for them, that is free of cruelty. We must prove it to them not just through promises of what is to come, but through our actions today, now.’

‘But don’t you see?’ asked Culverton, smiling placatingly. ‘They won’t know. None of them will know that we were the ones who fire-bombed the District. It’ll look like Magnussen, so it’ll look like it’s him, not us.’

‘That does not matter,’ replied Mycroft, frowning deeply, and leaning over the table again. ‘It will be found out. If not now, then afterwards. Then, there will be people like you. More rebellions. More resistance. People will see us as just as cruel as the people before.

‘During the Games, I promised not just Gregory, but everyone that I would break the cycle. I promised it on the Network, in front of all of Panem. If we do what you are asking us to do, then we are not new. We are just more of the same. We will not break the cycle. We will continue it. And then there will be others after us. New cruel people.’

There was silence.

Mycroft leaned back, folding his hands together in front of him, and peering across the table. Culverton was leaning forwards, his chin on his steepled hands. His eyes were beady and piercing, his face turned down into a frown. To his left, Smallwood was breathing softly, her eyes flickering between the two of them.

‘Holmes,’ she said, softly. ‘You must get moving, if you are to achieve this before Magnussen moves into District Two.’

‘Thank you,’ murmured Mycroft.

Before anyone else could speak, Mycroft spun on one heel, and walked straight out of the room, the pneumatic doors hissing closed behind him. Anthea was waiting for him, her dark eyes worried.

‘So?’ she asked, her voice soft.

‘Smallwood agreed,’ he murmured. ‘We need to begin moving the militia.’

‘What happened?’ she asked him, her eyes sharp. ‘I can tell that you’re tense.’

‘Culverton,’ Mycroft replied, bitterly. ‘It is a difficult thing, convincing people to do the hard thing. It is hard to convince those who have had cruelty beget upon them to choose instead to show kindness.’

‘What did Culverton ask for?’

‘Another time,’ replied Mycroft, holding up a hand. ‘We must focus on District Eleven for now. Once that is done…’

Anthea glanced at him, out of the corner of her eye.

‘I must do something,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘Sooner, rather than later. Culverton continues to express opinions that I cannot agree with, ones that I don’t see as being fitting for what we are attempting to accomplish.’

‘Mycroft,’ said Anthea, a warning in her voice. ‘You have to be careful. People aren’t going to always agree with you. That’s a simple fact. But if you want a world in which people have a voice, you’re going to have to live with that.’

‘Where is the line?’ asked Mycroft, pausing, a hand on Anthea’s elbow. ‘Where do I stop? Where to I have to no longer tolerate? Where does the line between free speech and damage stand? I cannot tell.’

‘I don’t know,’ murmured Anthea. ‘I really don’t. You’re the clever one, Mycroft. You’re going to have to work that out for yourself.’

***

Greg left Sally, Claire and Thalia outside the mess hall, before the point where it would have been awkward had he not removed his helmet. Claire had made it clear to him that no-one that they didn’t trust could see him without his helmet on. He was instantly recognisable, apparently.

That was a headache.

Greg ghosted down the hall, past the mess hall; loud sounds of people eating and talking filtering out. It grew a distance behind him, the sound lessening the farther he’d get away.

In the corner of his helmet, he could see the blueprint of the underground training complex. He had noticed a spot, yesterday, that he wanted to take a look at. He knew it was a risk, but there was a curious place labelled records quite deep down in the compound. It was practically next door to the boiler room that they’d popped out of; from what he’d read it was filled with the computers containing the information of all the current Peacekeepers in the field, as well as all the trainees. That was what Greg had been after; the list of trainees and information about them, about who they were and where their families were.

That was something that had stuck with him, yesterday. Claire had mentioned to him that she didn’t know if her family remembered who she was. Greg knew that they must remember.

Once this was all over; once the trainees had been granted the freedom to choose whether they wanted to stay or whether they wanted to go, then Greg wanted to provide them the information they needed. Where their families were, how far away they were. How to get back to them.

Slowly, over the last few days, they’d been working through more and more of the trainees down in the base. Quite a few had mentioned that they had no idea where their families were, whether their families were still alive. They often mentioned parents, brothers, sisters.

Often, these families were the reason many of the trainees wanted to leave.

As they spoke to more and more people, it was surprising how many wanted to leave. Greg had wondered, briefly, how this place had kept up for so long. So many people wanted out, so many people wanted to just be able to go home to their loved ones, that it surprised Greg that not more of them had worked this out between them.

But then he had realised, as he spoke to more and more of them.

They didn’t know that everyone else around them wanted to leave. They didn’t know that everyone else around them was as afraid and tired, and desperate for something other than cruelty, because they never talked to one another. Not really.

That was probably the reason for the helmets on at all times rule. It made communication, and communication without fear of being overheard, extremely difficult. The only thing that had managed to propagate between the trainees was the story of his father; of how his father had been kind, experienced, nurturing.

It made Greg a little jealous, deep down. These trainees knew more about his own father than he ever had. They knew more about Galen Lestrade than his own son. Greg had heard from many people small stories about who he had been, how he had helped than he’d ever heard before in his life.

Greg could barely wrap his head around the idea of Galen as a father. He could barely wrap his head around who he was as a person. For all these trainees, his father had been a hero, a mentor, without even being alive to talk to them. But for him… his father had always been someone he’d heard of in passing, mostly discussing how his father had died.

As far as Greg had been concerned, his father hadn’t been anyone of any particular note. But here… here his name was gold.

Greg was still not sure how he felt about that.

Enough.

He had something to do.

Focusing on his goal, Greg finally found the door he was looking for. It was rather nondescript; a small, grey, metal thing with a scanner on the front. Not for the first time, he thanked Mycroft’s skill in being able to steal and re-program a Peacekeeper’s armour, helmet and ID of a high enough rank where he wasn’t questioned much in particular for being in restricted areas.

He was mostly overlooked by everyone except the trainees.

It was a strange sensation, really. It had never occurred to him exactly how brainwashed the Peacekeepers were. The Peacekeepers back in the District had all their faculties; they were still able to make friends, and have meaningful interactions. But the ones here seemed almost robotic. As if they were following a protocol programmed into their brain, and didn’t question anyone who had the right number plastered over their face.

Greg shook his head, reaching for the door, and waiting while the scanner ran a bright light over his helmet, before flashing green.

Quickly, hoping he hadn’t been noticed, Greg swung inside. He was immediately confronted by darkness, with dim lights flashing overhead and flushing the entire area in a dim shade of pale blue. Around the room were massive, tall computer units, covered in blinking lights of different colours.

On the far side of the room was what Greg had come here for. A glowing tele screen, with an interactive set up. He could view the files there, hopefully.

Silently, Greg slid across the room towards this tele screen, reaching out for it and tapping on the various icons, trying to figure out how it worked. He’d always gotten John to fix the tele screen at home when it had gotten broken somehow — John always called him old with a roll of dark blue eyes.

A small smile twitched over Greg’s features. He had to ignore that memory for a moment, while he tapped and swiped through the various options.

Finally, he seemed to find a promising one entitled; “Major Records of Trainee Personnel”.

Tapping on that, he began to read through.

_View all files relating to trainees, and the Peacekeeper trainee program. Criminal database; full. _

Then beneath that, there was trolling list of the Districts. Immediately, Greg tapped on District Ten, out of instinct alone. A list of names flashed up; and beside them, various crimes, and their children.

_Rosie Dixon - Thievery - 1 child. Claimed. _

_ Carter Mason - Thievery - 3 children. Claimed. _

The list went on

Greg had no idea what any of it meant. He had no idea what was going on, or why.

Reaching out, Greg tapped on one of the names. The name flashed, before a series of pictures flashed across the screen, describing Rosie Dixon. It seemed she’d stolen a loaf of bread, and had been reported to the Peacekeepers for it.

Then, below that, a description from a Peacekeeper named Morris. It described that Morris had entered the home of Rosie Dixon, and encountered her single child. A one-year-old; Elsie Dixon.

Morris went on to describe that both the child and the adult were taken to “The Facility”, and that Rosie had been successfully washed of the memory of her child. The child had been removed to District Two, and that training had begun.

Peacekeeper training.

Suddenly, Greg wanted to be sick.

He suddenly knew why all the Trainees here thought their families didn’t remember them. He suddenly knew why they were all so desperate to get out. He had assumed that they had all volunteered to do this.

He was wrong.

He knew that sure, some of them had to be here by choice. But certainly not the vast majority.

All the trainees… they were all children of people who’d committed what the Capitol considered crimes in their Districts. They were stolen children, children who’s parents had been brainwashed into thinking they didn’t exist.

Greg was shocked that he hadn’t noticed it before. He was shocked that he hadn’t realised.

Then…

When Greg had lived on the streets, he had known that other kids went missing. Other children had vanished, that Greg had noticed. He wondered, for a moment, exactly how many he had missed. How many people who had committed crimes, who had children they loved and remembered one day, and then the next hadn’t.

It was a testament to how well Magnussen had managed to worm his way in. Just another horrifying way Magnussen had divided them. He had split them up so well, forced them all to see their neighbours with suspicion and division, to the point where they didn’t even notice when children just vanished, as if they never had existed.

Greg’s stomach was turning, as it seemed to do a lot nowadays.

He had to pull off his helmet, just for a moment. He needed to breathe, desperately. It was hard to think, suddenly, with that thing encasing his head like a cocoon. Hard to imagine the reality, of exactly what had happened here.

Suddenly, a massive hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Greg jumped what felt like a foot into the air, his heart jolting to like and beating out beneath his chest, his blood roaring through his veins.

‘Well,’ murmured a jolty, slightly grating voice that Greg immediately recognised from their daily “marching practice”. ‘The Silver Knight.’

Greg was forced to turn around, to see that Jefferson Hope, and two massive Peacekeepers were standing behind him. Both held him in place with one massive hand on each shoulder.

‘It seems I have a call to make.’

***

‘Are they all out yet?’ asked Anthea, her voice low and commanding next to him. Mycroft looked out through the dark cockpit of the hovercraft, out over the sight of District Eleven stretching below them. Mycroft had seen District Eleven before, and it had always been full of people. Dark-skinned, sable-cheeked people rushing about, sowing the fields, working with sweat pouring down their features, egged on by Peacekeepers all dressed in white. But now, when he looked down at the fields, he couldn’t see anyone. He could only see the fields, half-complete, and Peacekeepers, gathered up ahead.

Hovercraft with the Capitol crest emblazoned upon them awaited him. He could see form just eyeballing it that Magnussen had managed to muster many, many troops, practically seeming out of thin air.

‘This is going to be the first real battle, isn’t it?’ asked Anthea, her voice soft.

‘Yes,’ replied Mycroft, nodding sharply. ‘I think it will be. We need to stay focused.’

‘I know,’ said Anthea, bowing her head. ‘The comp stat engineers are saying that the civilian population count in District Eleven is low enough that we can begin.’

‘How low?’ asked Mycroft. ‘Is everyone accounted for?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Anthea. ‘But, sir, I think that’s impossible.’

‘She’s right, General,’ said a smooth voice, from the cockpit. Mycroft looked down to see a young man, hunched over a computer, peering at a series of white lines on a black backdrop filtering past his face. ‘It’s impossible to say everyone’s clear. But I think as many people as you’re going to be able to get clear are clear.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mycroft. ‘Very well. Release the ground troops.’

Mycroft watched, trying to remain emotionless, as a series of bright explosions lit up the ground beneath him. Pillars of dirt shot up into the air, as the light of fire-bombs burst. Smoke filled the sky, black smog beginning to form.

Black smoke began to pour across the fields towards where the Peacekeepers were all lined up, their guns held at the ready. ‘Is that all the black bombs?’ asked Mycroft.

The engineer below him nodded, his eyes fixed to the computer screen. ‘We’re jamming their heat-trackers now, as well.’

‘I am glad they are working. Have the militia begun to move in?’

‘They have,’ said Anthea, pointing to a slight movement that could be seen through the smoke.

Mycroft nodded, as Anthea held up a data pad. On it, he could see the small dots of the black-clad soldiers, moving through the smoke, over the fields and towards the Peacekeepers. The Peacekeepers, meanwhile, were attempting to retain formation, despite the jamming to their communications and tracking, and the black smoke that was preventing them from seeing.

The black smog itself was floating over the fields, turning the ground to an ocean of black. The white Peacekeeper uniforms stood out like a sore thumb in the chaos, and as Mycroft watched, they were bowled over by the tidal wave of black-clad Resistance soldiers.

‘Any casualties?’ asked Mycroft, suddenly, looking at Anthea.

She nodded, flicking something from her data pad up onto the main screen, projected out over the visor of the hover craft. A red number flashed up, slowly counting casualties.

Twenty so far for them. That was not as bad as Mycroft had dreaded. It seemed that the black smoke was working as well as he thought it would to disguise the movement of his black-clad militia.

‘And District Two?’ he queried, raising an eyebrow.

‘District Two has been stripped bare of Peacekeepers. The last of the District Two Peacekeepers have arrived in District Eleven. There is a skeleton guard in District Two currently.’

Mycroft sucked in a breath, smiling in satisfaction. This was going to have to be the best he could do for Gregory. He could only hope to whatever powers that were that Gregory was taking advantage of this lapse in guard, and gathering what he could.

‘General Holmes,’ came a crackling voice over the speaker system. Mycroft looked up, to see that Smallwood had appeared on the screen. ‘It is going well so far, I see.’

‘Indeed,’ replied Mycroft, with a sharp nod of his head. ‘The Silo?’

‘People are flooding in, Holmes,’ Smallwood said, her lips terse. ‘District Eleven refugees already number in the hundreds. Thousands more are headed in our direction.’

‘We have almost finished here,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘Once we are done, we can return the refugees to their District, or whichever District they would like.’

‘And the Silo?’

‘It shall be for Resistance and militia personnel only,’ Mycroft decided. ‘We need to encourage people to begin to resettle in their Districts. Currently, they don’t feel safe in their Districts. It is for that reason that they are moving to the Silo in vast numbers. We shall discuss this once I return.’

Smallwood pursed her lips, but nodded, sharply, ending the connection.

‘Sir,’ murmured Anthea. ‘There’s been a development in District Two. A live televised broadcast from District Two. They’ve caught him.’

Mycroft’s blood ran suddenly cold.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, turning on Anthea and snarling out the question, biting the words out.

‘We need to go,’ she said. ‘Now.’

***

The sun beat down heavy and hot on Greg’s shoulders as he was dragged out in front of the parade ground behind a victoriously crowing Jefferson Hope. The heat was stifling, pouring on Greg’s bare back and making him feel a little like he was a roast on a stick, basting in the flames.

He was dragged over his knees out onto the balcony, looking over the sea of white beneath hem. The legions of one-hundred trainees beneath were like a stoic ocean, waiting and watching with expressionless, emotionless masks covering their faces. Greg wanted to scream.

‘TRAINEES!’ bellowed Hope, his voice uncomfortably loud and grating from this close proximity. ‘Before you you see Greg Lestrade; the Silver Knight!’

Silence reigned. Waves of heat poured through Greg’s body, as the red sand blew over his face and raked over his bare back. The Peacekeepers were a massive presence beside him and behind him, and Greg could only wait with his headbowed for his sentence.

He’d never committed a serious enough crime to be lashed back in the District. He’d always been fairly good at keeping his head above water; keeping up with the taxes as best he could even if it meant he had to go hungry, not stealing food or money, not being caught selling illegal goods at the market. He’d never been dragged out in front of a crowd like this.

But he could imagine it.

He could imagine the lacing of white hot heat that would pound down on his back. He could imagine the lattice-work of thin, red marks lashing over his back, burning there like a hot brand. He could imagine the gleeful face Hope would make as he watched.

Jefferson began to pace, his hands folded behind his back, his face curled into a horrid, smug little smirk. ‘I expected more,’ he purred, his voice making Greg want to retch. ‘I expected a great deal more from Galen Lestrade’s son. I suppose,’ he murmured, ‘There is far too much of a reputation that precedes you for you to ever live up.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Greg bit out, his throat parched and dry, his arms bent up and away from his boy, making both his shoulders ache. ‘I’m not Galen Lestrade. I’m just me. But I like to think just me is good enough.’

Jefferson’s face twisted. He held up his hand, and suddenly the lash burned across Greg’s back. It was like fire, licking over his skin — something he had felt before. The metal bit into his flesh, and Greg could help but let out a scream, howling as the skin on his back was split open, and blood began to ooze down his back in a hot stream.

Greg swallowed down a deep breath, as involuntarily hot tears began to burn their way down his cheeks. His throat was parched and hoarse, and he wanted nothing more than to just give up. To lie there, just like Ash had done and wait for it to be over.

But he couldn’t. He didn’t have a choice.

Greg raised his head, from where he had beens taring down at the dirt. He raised his head to look straight at Jefferson, hoping to all the powers that be that whatever microphone he was wearing would also pick up Greg’s own voice.

Jefferson, his face twisted and angry, had bent over Greg, looking down into his eyes with beady ones of his own, slightly piggish and narrowed in rage. Spittle was flying out of his mouth as he condemned and raged at Greg.

Greg couldn’t hear a word he was saying. It sounded like white noise to his ears.

His own rage was boiling in his veins, burning in his stomach. It made his head pound and his blood rush in his ears, and filled him with a new kind of strength. Strength enough to bend his head back, and look out over the sea of trainees, waiting below with stoic faces.

‘Sally,’ said Greg, his voice as loud as he could make it, hoarse from the screams. ‘Claire. Thalia. Ash. Silvio. Claudia.’

Greg kept trying to say out loud names of people. He looked past Jefferson’s enraged fathers out into the sea of trainees, waiting and hoping.

There it was.

Slowly, Sally reached up, and pulled her helmet from her head. Beside her, Claire, Thalia, and quite a few many others, speckled throughout the sea of trainees, did the same, looking up at him and holding up their fists, their faces open and hopeful.

Slowly, as Greg watched, this seemed to spread throughout the trainees. More and more of them, as Sally and Claire and Thalia had done, took off their helmets, tossing them to the ground and holding up their hands, curled into fists.

Jefferson was still staring Greg down, with a gleeful grin. But he seemed to finally realise that Greg wasn’t looking at him, and instead he looked over his own shoulder.

Looking down into the parade ground, Jefferson howled out orders.

Nothing happenned.

The trainees continued to all slowly remove their helmets. The wave of bare faces moved through the legions, as they relaxed their positions and held up their fists, waiting for him.

He had to do something. He had to do something now.

The Peacekeepers who had been holding him had leaked their grips. They were clearly shocked, staring out over the trainees.

This was his chance.

Trying his best to ignore the pain on his back, the blood oozing over his skin, Greg tugged, sharply, on his arms. The two Peacekeepers overbalanced, falling to the concrete of the balcony. IT gave Greg enough time to grab one of their batons, and blindly hit them both in the back of the neck, knocking them out cold.

‘Seize him!’ snapped Jefferson, turning back to see that Greg had gotten free. But Greg was ready and waiting with the baton held out. The two Peacekeepers behind with the whips lashed them in his direction, but Greg managed to slip past with all the grace and survival instinct instilled into his bones by the Games.

He slammed the batons into the two Peacekeepers’ exposed necks. They fell like sacks of potatoes, thumping on the ground.

Greg turned back to Jefferson, his eyes flashing, holding the baton in one hand.

Jefferson was backing up towards the edge of the balcony, his eyes wide. Behind him, the sea of trainees was chaos, as Peacekeeper guards attempted to restore order. It wasn’t enough, though, the sea of trainees overcoming the few Peacekeepers that were around. He could see that a fewtrainees had fallen, but all the more swamped the Peacekeepers, their fists and various weapons flying.

‘Run,’ Greg threatened, his anger boiling in his voice. ‘Run away, Hope. Don’t come back.’

Jefferson squeaked, his voice high pitched, and he pushed past Greg, his gloves shoving Greg into the railing of the balcony, before he was off; disappeared back into the bowels of the training compound.

But Greg didn’t have time to go after him now.

‘STOP!’ he roared, holding up a hand, his bare chest aching with the force of his voice.

Beneath him, the roiling ocean of the white-clothed trainees halted in it’s tracks, slowly calming down until they were all standing, looking up at him.

A loud humming noise was sounding, and Greg looked up to see a massive hover craft, floating overhead. And finally, Greg smiled. The massive symbol tattooed on the bottom of the craft made sure he knew who it was that had arrived.

‘Finally,’ Greg muttered, ‘Took you long enough.’

‘Apologies, my dear,’ purred a voice from behind Greg. Greg turned to see Mycroft, his thin rapier puncturing through Jefferson’s torso, wet with blood. Greg smiled a small, triumphant smile, as Mycroft let Jefferson’s dull body fall from his rapier, as he stepped out onto the balcony to join Greg.

Beneath them, the trainees had reformed their legions, all looking up at him with open, hopeful faces. Greg spotted Sally, in the midst of the crowd, towards the front.

Mycroft stepped up beside him, and Greg silently folded their hands together, looking out over the sea of their new army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I feel really bad. Thank you for all the nice comments, and I'm very sorry that I haven't updated in such a long time. My life has been insane over the last few months, and this completely slipped my mind. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, I'm not super enamoured with it, but I hope you all enjoy it. 
> 
> TH x


	23. General

‘Mycroft,’ Greg murmured, squeezing Mycroft’s hand, ‘You should say something.’

‘I cannot,’ replied Mycroft, his voice even and a small smile of pride aching over his regal features. ‘They will not listen to me. They are not here for me. They are here, waiting, not for me, but for you.’

Greg looked down at his feet, scoffing. ‘I don’t think that’s true.’

‘It is,’ Mycroft said, sure and even.

Greg glanced at Mycroft, out of the corner of his eye. His lover’s eyes were warm and ready, trusting in him and no-one else. Quite similar to the way the trainees beneath him were looking up at him.

It was a stark image — the sight of the ocean of trainees beneath them, clothed in the outfits of Peacekeepers, but their faces bare, turned up facing the sun. Sunlight beat down on their faces, of different colours, shapes and sized.

Greg had to do this.

A sudden fire was building in his veins, a strange knowledge that didn’t quite feel like it came from him, but at the same time felt so familiar that it couldn’t be anything but himself, and his mind. The adrenaline rushing through him meant that the pain on his back was just a dull ache. He knew that soon enough, it would be burning again, it would be hot and burning at the edges, tearing apart. He could already feel blood oozing down his back.

But for the moment, it didn’t feel like that cut belonged to him. It didn’t feel like it was his body he was in; a strange mix of headiness and a trance-like state overcoming him.

Slowly, Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand once more, before dropping it.

Silently, he stepped forwards to face the trainees below, his strides even, until he reached the edge of the balcony. Below him, the ground was swimmingly, dazzlingly far away, the dirt red and packed down by thousands of feet.

‘Trainees!’ Greg called out, trying not to let his voice wobble, even while his knees did. The nerves were choking his throat, but he forced his words out anyway. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Greg Lestrade. My father was Galen Lestrade, the Rogue.’

Silence reigned, and the wind whistled.

‘But it shouldn’t matter to you who my father was. It matters who _I _am, and what I am going to ask of you.’

Trainees below him were shuffling, now, turning from one foot to the other, and moving restlessly. He could see their boiling anger, their bloody rage, rising and falling like the tide.

‘I have seen the records!’ Greg roared, raising his hand and pointing towards the walls. ‘I have seen what they show. The story they tell.

‘They have told me that you were taken as children. Many thousands of you, taken as children from your parents. Stolen by the Capitol. Enslaved.’

Silence reigned. Behind him, Greg heard Mycroft, shift from one foot to the other. All he could think about were those records, those lists of names, those lists of families who’d forgotten who their sons and daughters were, who their brothers and sisters were. The names of all the children who had been erased; as if they’d never existed, disappearing from right under their noses.

‘I offer those records to you all,’ Greg said, his voice booming out over the parade ground. ‘I offer them to you freely. If you would like to leave, to find your families, to find your homes, you may do so. You may leave, and you will not be harmed.’

Beneath him, the ocean of white-clad trainees roiled and turned, as people began to hastily whisper amongst themselves. Towards the back, Greg saw a few trainees melt away, disappearing down into the bowels of the training compound, out of the fizzing gates. He didn’t react.

That was the key. He had to make sure they knew there would be no adverse effects if they chose to walk out. He had to prove that he would not condemn them.

‘But if you do not want to do that, the reasons your own, I ask you a question. Stay. Stand beside me. Fight for the new world. Fight for justice, for freedom, for a _good world._ That is my question. Who will stand beside me?!’

There was a whistling, heavy silence. Wind echoed around the walls, stirring up sand that blew up in billows of red. Overhead, the hovercraft hummed and roared, and behind him, Greg could have sworn he heard Mycroft breathe.

His shoulders were tight and tense, waiting for something. He didn’t know how they were going to react. He could only hope.

There was a low, thumping sound. It was small and soft, but echoed around the walls, joining the whining of the hot breezes.

But it was growing. Greg couldn’t quite tell where it was coming from; it had started somewhere to his left. A low rumbling, growing and growing, rolling like thunder.

Greg looked over his eyes wide, a breath forced out of his lungs. He could finally see what it was that was making that sound. The trainees were stamping their feet, thundering on the hard-packed, red dirt. The sound was growing louder and louder, roaring through the compound and shaking the earth beneath their feet.

Mycroft had stepped up just behind Greg, and Greg glanced over his shoulder to take a peek. His lover had a lowered head, his eyes dark and promising, a small smile of pride and triumph arching over those features.

Greg looked back down to see that the trainees were all stamping their feet now, in a thunderous, well-timed beat. They were marching in place, and as Greg watched, he saw that they were slowly raising their white-clad arms, fisting their hands, and pointing straight up towards him. Thousands and thousands of fists, pointed right at him in a sign of unity.

The trainees were looking up at him, smiling, their eyes all filled with hope and the promise of a free, just, merciful future.

It was like a drug, intoxicating and rich, the sight of all these people demonstrating faith in _him. _It was astonishing.

It didn’t really feel like it fit quite right with him. It didn’t gel with the image of himself that Greg had always held. He had never considered himself in this light, but now here he was, being saluted and respected, admired and followed.

Some part of him was convinced this wasn’t him. His mind wasn’t quite convinced that this was because of who _he _was. It seemed impossible.

But there was the evidence below him, the thundering of thousands of marching feet, the sight of thousands of fists raised into the air, pointing at him in salute. Waiting for him.

And Greg couldn’t do anything but smile, and raise his own fist into the air in a sign of solidarity.

***

The med bay was alive with people rushing about, dressed up in white scrubs, waiting for patients to be wheeled in. Greg limped in, leaning heavily against Mycroft, but still with a grin plastered over his face.

‘Is this how you feel all the time?’ asked Greg, looking up at Mycroft with a cheeky grin.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but didn’t seem to be able to take the slate grey orbs away from Greg’s face. He had a small, soft smile there, different to his viciously triumphant twist of lips. It was comforting; a soft reminder of all that there was and all that there could be.

‘No,’ replied Mycroft. ‘There are far darker days. Then there are days like that. Days where you inspire people, speak in a way that moves people to respect you.’

Greg leaned further against Mycroft, resting his head on his lover’s shoulder for just a moment, before trying his best to stand upright again. On the slow trip back over to the Silo in the hovercraft, the adrenaline had finally worn off. The cut of the whip on his back had flared alive with pain once more, making Greg lean over and retch with the suddenness of it.

‘m tired,’ Greg murmured, his eyes feeling heavy, despite the pain on his back.

‘My love,’ murmured Mycroft, ‘You have to stay awake. Come, Molly!’

The mousy, brown haired girl let out a soft scream when she turned to see Greg. Greg just tried to smile, but he knew it came off forced and tired. He could feel blood still lazily oozing down his back, hot and sharp in his various other little scrapes and bruises. He could only hope that unlike Moriarty’s whip, this one hadn’t been poisoned.

‘Greg!’ Molly cried, rushing over and reaching out for him, resting her small hands on his elbows, and helping him over to a nearby bed. Greg collapsed face-first onto the low, uncomfortable bed, the scratchy pillow itching his cheeks.

‘Mycroft,’ Greg murmured, turning his head and reaching out, even as Molly let out a low gasp at the state of his back. ‘How bad is it, love? Sugar coat it a bit, though.’

Mycroft was entirely silent, his slate eyes fixed on Greg’s face.

After a moment, he sighed, sitting down beside Greg’s bed and lifting a hand to rest on Greg’s face. His long fingers stroked over Greg’s jaw comfortingly, and Greg couldn’t help but lean in a little to their slightly cool touch. ‘It is not as bad as Moriarty’s mark from the Games.’

‘I match now,’ Greg laughed, his chest bouncing and immediately burning as his back split. ‘One on the front, one on the back.’

Mycroft’s lips twitched, but his eyes remained soft and sad, open in a way Greg rarely saw them. ‘Gregory,’ Mycroft murmured, his voice soft and even. ‘I have no words. You have once more taken my breath away.’

Greg felt a light, fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach. Mycroft was so stoic, so silent, but in this moment, for just a moment, he looked more than a little vulnerable. It was astonishing.

He couldn’t help but reach out a hand, curling their fingers together where they rested on his own cheek. Mycroft smiled, softly, leaning his shoulder against the low cot.

Behind him, Greg knew that Molly was working, her small hands light and fluttery over his back. She was wearing rubber gloves, and spreading some sort of cold, numbing salve over the area. It was finally more comfortable; Greg didn’t have to feel the burning pain of the lashes on his back. It was just back to a dull, numb ache once more, with a strange tugging sensation tossed in as his friend began to stitch his back up again.

‘Hopefully I’ll heal a bit quicker than I did last time,’ Greg sighed, looking at Mycroft’s slate eyes with as much focus as he could. The exhaustion was already threatening, a haze around the edges of his vision. ‘And you won’t have to take a stupid risk, as well.’

‘Well worth it,’ murmured Mycroft, ‘Always.’

Greg didn’t think he was talking about the salve he’d gotten from the feast back in the Games, suddenly.

Sleepily, Greg yawned, squeezing their fingers, before blinking his eyes, slowly. It was a strange sensation — he was sure that there was some sort of soporific in whatever Molly and rubbed on his back. He had been tired before, but not quite like this.

‘My,’ Greg murmured, his voice soft and tired, ‘It was terrible. The trainees… they were all taken from their parents. Anyone who had a child who committed a crime — their child was taken away. They were _brainwashed, _My. Their parents were tortured until they forgot who their children were.’

‘I know,’ whispered Mycroft, leaning forwards. ‘I have people working on retrieving the records you glimpsed as we speak — we are attempting to find the parents for your trainees. Their brothers and sisters, as well.’

‘It happened right under my nose,’ Greg said, tiredly, his voice hoarse. Tears were threatening behind his eyes. ‘It must have. I… I just feel bad, because I don’t remember it. Everyone just kept to themselves.’

‘By design,’ replied Mycroft. ‘The Capitol kept them apart. They kept people as secular as possible, so they would not notice children going missing. Particularly the children of those considered criminals. It was a crime to even be sighted near a known criminal.’

Greg let out a soft exhale through his nose. ‘I can’t… I can’t stand the thought—‘

‘It is not your fault, my love,’ Mycroft interrupted. ‘You have freed them now. We can reverse the damage.’

‘You and me,’ Greg nodded. ‘We can.’

‘All done,’ said Molly, her voice quiet, as if she didn’t want to intrude. ‘You’re all good to go, Greg. Well… not really. It’ll take a couple of days for that to heal, even with the good stuff I dug up for you. And don’t pop the stitches before they dissolve.’

‘Thank you, Molls,’ Greg murmured, looking over his shoulder at his friend, while still keeping his and Mycroft’s hands laced together.

‘I saw what happened,’ said Molly, softly, her voice quiet. She reached out and laid a hand on Greg’s bare shoulder. ‘We all did. It was on the Network. When you spoke… the entire hangar… they all cheered.’

Greg smiled, softly. ‘I still don’t know why. I just… I said what I felt.’

‘That’s why,’ shrugged Molly. ‘They love you. Not because you’re Galen Lestrade. Not because you’re the Silver Knight. Because you’re… I don’t know… _you_, I guess.’

Greg let out a laugh, grinning up at Molly. ‘Well, thank you for the sloppy sentiment, Molls.’

Molly rolled her eyes, and gently tapped Greg on the shoulder in an imitation of their usual push and shove. ‘Shut up, you old bastard.’

‘Well, at least I’m actually older than you,’ Greg snorted. ‘Sal tried that one on me in District Two. I’m _younger _than her!’

‘You’re the one with grey hair,’ Molly shot back, pointing at his head.

‘Well, at least I don’t have glasses and enjoy knitting,’ Greg shot back.

‘Hey!’ Molly replied, outraged, tapping him on the shoulder a little harder, now. Greg flinched, a little, and a sudden roil of remorse fell over Molly’s face.

‘It’s fine, Molls,’ Greg said, rolling his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

Molly sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I was just… worried, I guess.’

‘Don’t worry,’ replied Greg, smiling. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Molly smiled a soft, sad smile. It was almost begrudging, her eyes sad. It was as if she’d said it out loud; he couldn’t promise her that.

But he could try. He could always try.

She turned, flicking her hair over her ear. ‘Gotta go, Greggy,’ she said, her voice throaty and soft. ‘You’re not the centre of my universe.’

‘Go!’ Greg replied, shooting her a thumbs up with his other hand. He didn’t know if she could even see it — it was at an awkward angle. She shot a last grin at him, before dashing off farther into the med bay.

Greg turned to look back at Mycroft. Mycroft was watching him with wide, observant, slate-grey eyes.

‘Alright?’ asked Greg, raising an eyebrow. Mycroft smiled, and raised Greg’s hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. Greg grinned in return. ‘Help me up?’ he asked, ‘I wanna get out of here. Too many people, I’m too tired to deal with right now.’

‘Gregory,’ sighed Mycroft, ‘I think you ought to stay here for now. Simply so your back is in the optimal conditions to heal.’

‘Optimal conditions my arse,’ Greg replied, rolling his eyes. ‘I need a nap, and I don’t want to nap here. I want to nap in your room, on your bed, with you right by my side. Right now.’

‘You’re quite demanding,’ commented Mycroft, raising a brow.

‘I’m injured,’ Greg replied. ‘You have to do what I ask. Also, you’re the General, so you can get me out of here easier.’

‘Very well,’ nodded Mycroft, not putting up too much of a fight. It seemed to Greg he really had had the same thing on his mind. It hadn’t been easy; being apart so soon after they had been brought back together.

Greg had hated every second, even though he knew he was doing the right thing. It was almost pleasing to see that Mycroft had been just as deeply affected by the separation as he had been.

He had worried, a little, that Mycroft hadn’t been affected. That Mycroft had maintained the unaffected air. But it was a strange comfort to see Mycroft holding his hand as if it were a precious jewel, his eyes not leaving Greg’s face, just as Greg could barely tear his own eyes from Mycroft’s regal features.

But here was the evidence, right before him, that Mycroft had missed him.

It was an almost strange thought.

‘Of course,’ replied Mycroft, as he helped Greg to his feet, ‘Of course I missed you. There is not a reason on Earth that I would not.’

Greg looked up, sharply, looking at Mycroft. Mycroft smiled. ‘I also believe you do not realise you said that part out loud.’

Sighing, Greg rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘I’m too tired for this shit.’

***

Soon enough they reached Mycroft’s room. It had been a slow going, a traipse through the halls while Greg tried his best not to let the stitches on his back tug too much. Molly had cast him a disapproving glare as she rushed passed with another patient, but she hadn’t stopped him. Greg took that as a tacit sign of approval.

The pneumatic doors hissed open before Greg even noticed, and Mycroft, bearing the brunt of Greg’s weight at this point, helped him inside, and then helped him lie down, front-face on the mattress. Slowly, Greg rolled his neck over to look at Mycroft, who had walked up beside the bed and laid a soft hand on Greg’s shoulder.

‘Gregory,’ he murmured, ‘I have much to do. Proceedings to oversee. I do not believe I have the time to take a rest at this moment.’

Sighing, Greg raised his arm. ‘Too bad,’ he muttered. ‘Take a break, Mycroft.’

Mycroft let out a soft exhale. ‘The Capitol does not sleep. Magnussen does not rest. Culverton is out there, prowling the halls—‘

‘—fucking creep—‘

‘—and I must not rest on my haunches.’

‘Mycroft,’ Greg looked up at his lover, his eyes wide and wanting. ‘Please.’

That plead seemed to do it. Mycroft gave in, hanging his head before sitting down on the bed. Slowly, Greg watched as Mycroft bent over, clearly unlacing his shoes. He left his socks on; a comfortable, almost cute gesture, before flipping his feet up. He was still entirely fully dressed up in a three-piece suit; grey tie and all. It was a little messy, a little dusty from District Two, but it was no less attractive.

Slowly, Greg ran a hand over Mycroft’s chest, threading underneath the grey panelled waist-coat. The soft linen between Mycroft’s chest and Greg’s own bare hand was smooth and warmed by his body-heat.

Greg smiled, softly, and tucked himself closer in to Mycroft’s shoulder, pressing his nose into the fine wool of Mycroft’s dark suit. He knew that when he fell asleep, Mycroft was going to have to get up, to do all the things he needed to do.

But for now, it was enough that Mycroft was lying here, next to him. It was enough that Mycroft was waiting, calmly, for him to fall asleep, offering the silent comfort of his heart beating under Greg’s hand.

‘My,’ Greg whispered, his legs feeling heavy and weak, his arms weighed down by their own mass, and his eyes blinking shut.

‘Gregory,’ replied Mycroft, his hand coming up to stroke over where Greg had his own hand tucked under Mycroft’s jacket and waist-coat.

‘We’re close, aren’t we?’ Greg asked, quietly. ‘To the end, I mean. We’ve already got so many Districts free of Peacekeepers, free of taxes. We’ve got all the trainees from District Two.’   
‘You are correct,’ replied Mycroft. ‘We are closer than anyone else has ever gotten. And we shall get further.’

‘What’s the end goal here?’ Greg questioned, his voice throaty and tired. ‘What happens afterwards?’

‘We build a good world,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘Just as you promised the trainees. Just as I promised on the Network. It will not be built in a day. It shall be the work of the rest of our lives.’

‘Together?’ asked Greg, feeling strangely vulnerable.

‘For as long as you should want me.’

Greg’s consciousness faded; Mycroft’s heart beating steadily under his fingertips.

***

‘What were you thinking?’ demanded Smallwood, her voice sharp at the edges. They were alone in the conference room, the sky outside dawning with the first light of the new day. The pale blue of the morning was framing the silhouettes of dark trees, casting shadows through the room like long, thin tendrils.

Mycroft looked down at his hands, for a moment thinking he felt a little as if he was being told off by a teacher. He looked up, sharply, casting a glance straight at Smallwood’s watery blue eyes. Her lips were pursed in disapproval.

‘Culverton does not need any further cannon fodder against you, Holmes,’ she snapped. ‘I hope that you know what exactly you are doing.’

‘I do,’ replied Mycroft, calmly. ‘Gregory required my assistance, so I went.’

‘You aren’t just the Silver Knight’s ally,’ Smallwood snapped. ‘You are the General of the Resistance militia. You must think of them.’

‘The captains had the operation under control. They no longer needed me. I was required elsewhere.’

‘You are their General. Our militia suffered further losses simply due to the fact that you were not there. You were not there to plan, you were not there to lead. They had to complete the siege of District Eleven without you.’

‘And yet they succeeded,’ Mycroft replied. ‘My plan was designed to succeed without me there. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we would not have lost as many were I there. Or perhaps we would have. There is simply no way to tell. All I knew at the time was that I had been presented with a choice. To stay, and oversee a plan that had already worked, that was already in its final stages of success.’

Mycroft sat upright, leaning forwards to rest his chin on steepled fingers, focusing on Smallwood’s face.

‘My other option was to support Gregory,’ he said. ‘To stand beside him, as he ensured our forces were easily doubled. We have gained far more than we have lost, Smallwood. It is quite as simple as that.’

‘_I _know that, Holmes,’ snapped Smallwood.

There was a beat of silence. Smallwood sat back down in her chair, leaning back and resting her small fingers on her chin, her brows low over her eyes.

‘That does not matter to Culverton,’ Smallwood murmured. ‘He is seeking to undermine not just you, but me as well. There are those amongst the ranks of the officials who agree with what he is saying. Who agree that those of the Capitol, even those of District One, deserve none of the mercy that you intend on showing them.’

‘Kindness is not a weakness,’ Mycroft replied, simply, leaning back in his own seat and spreading his hands.

‘Perhaps,’ replied Smallwood. ‘But you are biased.’

‘Of course I am,’ snapped Mycroft. ‘The truth is quite simply that Gregory and I are lovers. We are partners. I believe in who he is. And he is kind. It is quite simple.’

‘He’s going to make you weak,’ Smallwood warned, her voice sharp around the edges. ‘He’s going to wear down your sharp edges.’

Mycroft snorted. ‘You have misconstrued it, Smallwood. You saw the speech that Gregory made to the trainees. The way he spoke — he captivated them.’

‘You are better.’

‘No,’ Mycroft said, raising a brow. ‘I may inspire, and I may charm, but I do not evoke love in the way that Gregory does. I am not earnest the way he is. The love that Gregory engenders is far more powerful than the hate that Culverton attempts to incite.’

‘You seem entirely too sure of that,’ Smallwood said, softly. ‘I personally would not be so quick to write off hatred.’

‘No,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘Hatred is no weak foe. It is not a foe to take lightly. But it is a foe which we can defeat.’

‘Culverton is the fruit-seller of hatred,’ said Smallwood. ‘He engenders the kind of hatred that burns cities. What is there to say that burning cities is not the solution?’

Mycroft snorted, again. ‘Do not delude yourself, Smallwood. You do not truly believe that to be the solution. You believe what I have to say. Perhaps more importantly, you believe what Gregory has to say.’

‘I want this just world that you and your lover both keep speaking of,’ Smallwood said. ‘But I simply want to caution you against idealism. Your Silver Knight is new to the ways of war--'

‘—he is not as new to it as you would believe,’ snapped Mycroft, interrupting her. ‘He was in the Games, just the same as I was.’

‘This isn’t the Games, Mycroft, and you’re a fool to compare them.’

‘I am not,’ replied Mycroft, curtly, leaning forwards. ‘Am I wrong in saying that you were never in the Arena? That you were never a Tribute?’

‘Of course I wasn’t,’ replied Smallwood.

‘Exactly,’ Mycroft held up a finger. ‘There are different kinds of wars, Elizabeth. The Games are a war. Perhaps one that you do not recognise, but a war all the same.’

‘Do not assume me naive, Holmes,’ snapped Smallwood, her eyes sharp around the edges. ‘War is not a game.’

‘The Hunger Games are not games, despite the name,’ replied Mycroft, evenly. ‘It is far too difficult to describe if you have not experienced it. But you knew who I was before I went in. You knew the plans I had laid, the methods I had turned, the bargains I had struck. And you saw how quickly they disappeared like steam between my fingers. Finally, you know who I am now. You are a testament to the change I have gone through.’

Smallwood sighed out a breath, looking at her hands before looking back up at him. ‘You are walking a fine line, Holmes. You are walking down a path that I am uncertain I can support you on. When the time comes, perhaps we shall see.’

‘Elizabeth,’ murmured Mycroft, ‘You promised your daughter a fair, just, _good_ world. Before she died. I know that; you told me about your promise. This is my way of attempting to fulfil that promise. We begin now, we do not begin when we have won the war. We prove to people that we follow those morals and high standards now. Not in some far-off, distant future.’

Smallwood bowed her head. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the doors slid open in a pneumatic hiss of noise. Through the door, Culverton stepped, his face curled in disgust, and his piggy eyes latching onto the both of them, already in the room.

‘Holmes,’ Culverton said, his voice rolling over Mycroft’s surname with an oily sort of charm. To this day, even after hearing it over and over for months on end, Mycroft still despised the sound with every bone in his body.

Culverton looked immaculate; his hair greased back and the circles under his eyes entirely gone. Unlike Mycroft himself, Culverton looked well-rested, a luxury Mycroft didn’t feel he could afford himself. Not quite yet.

‘Culverton,’ replied Mycroft, nodding his head sharply and straightening his waistcoat. Slowly, he stood, leaning forward and glaring sharply at the leader of the Resistance.

He would have to start from an offensive position from the go — Culverton was out for blood. He was a little like a wild dog, scenting the air for the smell of a wounded animal.

There could not be a wounded animal here.

‘Death statistics?’ queried Culverton, a small smile decorating his hateful features.

‘One-hundred and ninety-three,’ replied Mycroft, reeling the number off the top of his head.

‘Ah,’ Culverton said, his voice curt and unapologetic. ‘But I believe you promised far fewer losses than that, Holmes.’

‘It is true that I did,’ replied Mycroft, nodding his head.

‘That is the reason I agreed to this gambit in the first place, Holmes. You promised it would not negatively affect our numbers.’

‘It has not,’ Mycroft said, snapping his words out as he would fire bullets from a gun. ‘We have gained thousands of soldiers. Thousands of supporters, who will stand beside us. Fight for us.’

Culverton frowned. ‘And I would be willing to accept that. Were it not for the simple fact that you left the battle when it was but half-done.’

‘Lies,’ murmured Mycroft, leaning forwards to rest his closed fists on the cool glass of the conference table. ‘Slander. My gambit paid off in every way. We may now add two to our tally of freed Districts. District Eleven is safe, as is District Two. Add that to District Twelve, District Five and District Four, we are farther along than we ever expected to be at this juncture. Furthermore, we have a new army at our disposal. Were we to continue along this trajectory, then we may achieve the goal of surrounding the Capitol before the next Reaping.’

Culverton sat down, his posture relaxed, his smile not faltering for a second. Smallwood’s watery eyes were darting between them both, her small lips tight and terse. Mycroft peered at her, watching carefully as she seemed to make a decision.

It had not always been entirely clear which side she stood upon, however at this juncture, it seemed that Mycroft had retained her support. For the time. It was a tenuous juncture, though. A knife’s edge. The right words, Mycroft knew, and Smallwood would be convinced to defect.

He had to take control before this got any further out of hand.

‘The resources that District Two can provide us with, now that we have control, are immense. We have access to far newer hovercraft, far superior weaponry. All the facilities provided to Peacekeepers, we now have access to. Not to mention that Magnussen now no longer has access to them. They cannot be used against us. In addition, we are garnering support from amongst the ranks of the refugees from District Eleven. There are those who have joined the ranks of the militia; their numbers far outstrip the numbers lost to the battle. That is not even counting the practically countless number of trainees that are now under the command of the Silver Knight.’

Culverton let out a low hum, tapping his chin and letting a mask of mock confusion fall over his features. Mycroft could make out a small smile, though, hidden behind those hands. ‘And where are we going to put all these refugees? As Smallwood has said before; we have no room in the Silo for any more refugees. And certainly, we cannot force them back to District Eleven. Far too many of them feel entirely threatened in the place you’re asking them to stay.’

Mycroft grinned, suddenly, sitting back in his seat, and pulling a data pad out of his coat pocket. He rested the data pad on the table, bringing up a three-dimensional model of the Silo, and the underground compound in District Two. It floated in the air, humming and buzzing away, the tunnel connecting them like a heartstring, winding and thin.

‘This is District Two,’ said Mycroft, flicking his fingers so the models began to twirl through the air. ‘It is extremely well-defended, extremely safe, and simply massive. The size of the storage rooms, sleeping areas, and various other common areas are by far large enough to accomodate a civilian population easily twice the size of the population currently supported in the Silo. My proposition is that—‘

Suddenly, the pneumatic doors hissed open. Light from outside the conference room poured in — pale blue light from the exterior. Framed in the doorway like some kind of angel was Gregory.

He was wearing the full Silver Knight regalia; metallic armour shining in the pale light. Silver hair glinted, and a strong jaw was tight and tense, but his lover looked well-rested, something Mycroft felt he could pat himself on the back for achieving. His eyes were slightly uncertain as he gazed into the meeting room, finally settling on Mycroft before lighting up, twinkling.

His face split into an ecstatic smile, a smile Mycroft couldn’t help but return. Gregory swept into the room, his feet treading lightly over the concrete floor.

Immediately, Mycroft held out a hand, gesturing to the only empty chair left in the room. Gregory took ahold of the back, and instead of pulling it out to take a seat, dragged it further up the table, sitting extremely suggestively directly to Mycroft’s right. He was so close that Mycroft could reach out and touch him.

For a moment, Mycroft resisted, then questioned as to why he was resisting that urge.

Reaching out, Mycroft offered his hand to Gregory in a silent moment of unity, and returning the sentiment, Gregory took it without a single second of hesitation. It took Mycroft’s breath away, in a somehow familiar, yet unfamiliar way.

Mycroft cleared his throat, indicating with his unoccupied left hand to the glowing hologram. ‘As I was saying, it would be simple enough an act to move the trainees from District Two to the Silo, and move the refugees through Galen Lestrade’s underground passage into District Two. It is well defended enough that they would be secure in staying there, and it has enough supplies to support the civilians. Furthermore, it will encourage them to pursue returning to their own Districts before long.’

Glancing at Gregory out of the corner of his eye, he could see that his lover was smiling in approval, nodding his tacit consent.

‘Silver Knight,’ Smallwood said, nodding her acknowledgement. ‘I am glad to see your inclusion on these matters.’

‘Happy to be here,’ replied Greg, smiling a bright smile and flashing all his teeth and charm at the other woman. Smallwood smiled softly, in response. At the far end of the table, Culverton was stewing, the small smile fallen from his face.

‘Hence, with the council’s permission, I would begin the transfer immediately.’

‘I agree,’ said Gregory, nodding at Mycroft.

‘As do I,’ replied Smallwood, her voice sharp and uncompromising. ‘I believe that settles the matter—‘

‘—Apologies,’ Culverton cut in. ‘But I do not believe that Mr Lestrade is a part of this council.’

Mycroft frowned. ‘He has more right to be on this council than—‘

Smallwood cut him off with a raised hand, and a glance. ‘—_General_ Lestrade is now the leader of a major faction of this organisation. He has earned his seat at this table.’

Mycroft leaned back in his seat, even as Gregory’s hand slackened, his face widening with shock.

‘General?!’ asked Culverton, outrage breaking over his face. ‘We did not promote Lestrade! I had no say in this matter!’

‘General Holmes and I have both previously agreed,’ said Smallwood. Mycroft nodded, tacitly. ‘That constitutes a majority of the current council, regardless of whether you were here or not, Commander Smith. Furthermore, the trainees, or as they now prefer to be known; the Silvers, have named Lestrade their General. They are refusing to take orders from you or I, and they have only just agreed to take orders from General Holmes. General Lestrade is the only one who they will listen to willingly. And I am certain that you will hence agree that he needs to be informed of our plans. Otherwise half of our army will not know their orders.’

Checkmate.

Mycroft smiled a small, triumphant smile, looking at Culverton with narrowed eyes. Beside him, Gregory had tightened their hands again, and was glancing at Mycroft with twinkling eyes, a smile decorating his features. Mycroft was helpless in the face of the wave of sentiment that flooded through him; it turned his mind to a blank mess, and he could think of nothing but those brown eyes.


End file.
